The Visit (Everyone I Know, Everywhere I Go)
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: It's 1978, disco is on it's last legs, Grease is playing in theaters across the country, and the Curtis family gathers in Canada to meet the latest addition to their crazy brood.
1. Chapter 1

**1978**

"You excited?" I glance over at my hubby, he's sitting in the passenger's seat, his legs are crossed and his hands are drumming out a rhythm on his thighs. He's bouncing around so much; I swear he's making the car bounce with him.

And I swear, I'm this close to hurling my damn burger right onto his can't-sit-still-for-one-damn-moment lap.

I love my man more than anyone or anything, but sometimes he reminds me of a little kid.

A little kid who ate too much cake and ice cream at the birthday party, and who still manages to steal the extra frosting from everyone else's plate, because he's still hungry.

I don't know how his Mama, bless her soul, didn't lose her shit with him.

He flashes me a bashful grin, "now, what tipped you off?"

That's what I love about Soda, he don't hide his emotions or his feelings. When he's happy, you'll know it, when he's excited, you'll know it, when he's pissed off, baby, believe you me, you'll know it.

He places his hand on my shoulder, "how are you doing?"

He's stopped bouncing around and if I look at him, I'll know his chestnut brown eyes are imploring and full of empathy.

So, I don't look. Because if I do, I might start crying, because I know I don't deserve him. Plus, I promised myself, no crying. Not today.

With my eyes straight on the road, I try to smile, "I'm real excited, can't wait to see her."

Some people can lie real well. You know the type, the kind of people who tell you that your hair and makeup look fabulous even when they clearly think you look like Frankenstein's mother. I work at a beauty salon, so I know that type all too well.

But I can't lie. When I lie my voice gets high pitched and cracks and my face freezes; which is the complete opposite from my normal voice which is raspy and guttural like a Janis Joplin song, and my face which flashes my inner thoughts out to the entire world.

Soda, he doesn't say nothing. He knows when to press me and when to let it go.

Instead he just squeezes my shoulder, his warm hands lying there for five seconds or so before he lets go.

"Mary, you think I can take a spin?" He eyes the odometer.

"Oh, I get it, you're all sweet talk so you can get a chance to drive…" I burst out laughing. It's taken Soda a while to get use to my humor. Not that I'm a comedienne or nothing, I ain't exactly Gilda Radner. But, I got my moments.

Even a year ago if I had said something like that, he would of gotten real pissed off and hurt. He gets angry when you accuse him of not being on the level. Yeah, my man can be pretty sensitive at times.

Sometimes I joke that I don't know who's on the rag more often, me or him.

But now, he just gives as good as he gets it. "Baby, if I wanted you to let me drive I'm going to have to offer you more than just my shoulder."

He winks at me, and if you don't think his wink and his grin still don't melt me, well, you're one dumb fuck.

"Would that have worked on you?"

I take a sigh, like I'm pondering his question.

"Nope," I say with a loud laugh.

Soda places his head on my shoulder. He's a bit taller than I am, okay, a lot taller, so it's sorta awkward looking. But, he hums softly and for that minute, just feeling him against me, makes me feel better.

He sits back up and adjusts the radio. Here's the thing about sharing a ride with Soda Curtis, you ain't ever gonna get a chance to touch that radio dial as long as he's in the car, and he's gonna change stations about every two miles, trying to find the 'perfect' song.

And if you drive down a stretch of country road without radio service, never fear, because Soda will start singing at the top of his lungs, badly.

My husband is good at so many things, especially in the bedroom, if you get my drift; but honey, he can't sing worth SHIT.

I continue to step on the accelerator.

I look outside my window and watch the highways of America zoom by us.

* * *

My wife presses her foot on the accelerator and I cringe with the jerk of the car. I hope there ain't a cop hiding in the bushes nearby, would be just our luck.

I roll my eyes, man, when did I get so old? Next thing you know, I'm gonna be yelling at kids to get off my lawn.

Not that this would be our first run-in with the law, and we've both gotten in trouble for things far more serious than just 'speeding' but still, I don't need that shit today.

Not when we're driving all the way up to Vancouver to visit Pony, his wife Aimee and their new baby girl, Paige.

Yup, my kid brother is now a daddy. Wow. You know, it don't matter how many times I say that to people, and you better believe I've already been bragging about Paige to everyone; it still feels so wild and unbelievable.

I now have four nieces and nephews on my side of the family. Darry and his wife Cathy have three kids, Karen, Carlson-Darrel, who we all call C.D., and Billy. I adore Darry & Cathy's kids like you wouldn't believe, especially Karen, who is the oldest and always keeps me on my toes.

But that ain't nothing compared to how excited I am about seeing Paige. When Pony told us that Aimee was pregnant, I don't know who was happier, me or him.

There's something just wild about the kid that I use to hold awkwardly on my lap for family pictures, with Darry sitting on the side holding up his head, with a kid of his own.

But I look at Mary in her black leggings and large purple sweatshirt that rides just off her shoulder and makes her look like an aerobics coach, and not my big hearted, but hard-ass biker chick; and not even the thought of seeing Paige for the first time can ease the gnawing feeling of melancholy that swirls inside of me.

We've been trying to get pregnant for year, but nothing's worked. We've tried everything. I mean, I ain't gonna go into all the details; but for the first time sex, at least for me, has become an exhausting chore that has nothing to do with love or passion.

I don't tell her that though, because she wants a baby more than anything.

And still, she's not pregnant.

And every time she gets her period she falls apart a little bit. Mary is a strong woman, the strongest person I know, and at first when she got her period, she would make a joke, but be more determined than ever to get pregnant by the next month. And, month after month she would get her period.

It didn't help that everyone around us was getting pregnant. Pony and Aimee were expecting Paige, Darry and Cathy just had Billy the year before, Mary's brother, Enrique and his wife LaDonna had twin girls, Sierra and Nevada, earlier this year, and that was just in our immediate families.

Two of the girls at the salon Mary works at also had kids within the last two years.

About four months ago, it got too much for her. We just returned from California seeing Rick, LaDonna and their brood of five (all girls, which gotta be a bitch on wheels for a super macho tough guy like Rick Hernandez), so she was already pretty emotionally exhausted when she got her period again.

She went into our bathroom and started to cry her heart out. I don't have Pony's way with words, but all of her emotion and pain erupted like a volcano, that's the only way I can put it, but instead of giving her that release that comes with a good cry, it just never ended.

Her wails gave way to short, racking sobs, which quieted down for a few moments, before starting over again.

It scared me. Mary, like I said before, has a big heart, too big actually, she'll do anything for someone in trouble; but she also has a temper and I've seen her get in fights with people on more than one occasion.

Word of advice: never bet against my girl. She's tiny, but does she know how to land a punch. And she ain't afraid to kick either.

But to hear her in our bathroom; not angry, not fighting, not swearing, not even joking, or praying; but wailing out her pain, hurt me to the core of my being.

I opened the door; she had the fan running to muffle the sound of her crying. She sat with her back against the wall and a roll of toilet paper in her lap. She was bleeding a bit through her underwear.

I told her how much I loved her, which was truer than true, but I knew that my words were like pinpricks right now to her.

It was like the well-intentioned but empty phrases our neighbors gave us after our folks were killed.

So, I did the only thing I could. I sat down next to her and held her hand. If I couldn't give her a baby or make her feel better, at least I could share her pain with her.

"It's a lot to handle, isn't it?" I said softly.

She stopped crying and looked embarrassed, "I'm so sorry Soda. I thought I was doing good, but seeing Sierra and Nevada and the other girls, and getting my period. I can't do this anymore. I can't take it."

She let out a harsh chuckle with a snort at the end, "you must think I'm one crazy bitch."

She crossed her arms and she glared at me, like she was DARING me to contradict her. I knew that she was testing me. She does this a lot, and it annoys the hell out of me. It's really the only thing she does that drives me up the fucking wall.

She doesn't believe me when I tell her that she's my world, that I would never leave her.

I mean, I stayed with her, when, high on angel dust, she tried to claw me like a tiger. If you don't think hurt like a mother…

I stayed with her when she was arrested for possession. She's mine for life. And yet, she still don't believe me. As much as I love her, that pisses me off, because what else do I need to do to convince her?

Sometimes, she'll even just say point-blank, "I don't know why you stay with me, you deserve better. You should just leave. You know you want to." Which is the biggest bunch of bullshit I've ever heard, because I ain't gonna get any woman better than Mary Curtis.

Hell, any woman who can put up with me and who can make me laugh and cry (often at the same time) and give me a run for my money out on the dance floor and on a horse, has got to be someone special.

We've known each other since 1969 and I can honestly say, I'm never bored when I'm with her. Pissed off? Sometimes. Madly in love? Most of the time. But bored? Never.

I rubbed my hands down her arms, she's real skinny and she has this sorta 'broken glass' quality to her. She can break apart real easy, but not without causing a lot of cuts to others.

"I don't," I tell her, cupping her chin in my hand. Hoping that she can see just how much she means to me, baby or no baby.

"Mary, I got you, I don't need a baby," and I mean it.

She looks down at her lap and her face, defensive and angry just a few minutes ago, softens, "but I do," she says softly, "I do."

She lets go of my hand, but I could still feel her fingers inside my palm.

She has this door ornament of a pregnant Virgin Mary on the inside on the bathroom door. That ornament gives me the heebie jeebies. Mary is real religious, but having the Mother of God look down at you why you try to take a shit, is kind of heavy, even for her.

But, that's her bag. She digs angels and saints and God in a way that I didn't think was possible. She goes to Mass twice a week, because apparently one time ain't enough for her, and she volunteers at her church's soup kitchen. She used to volunteer at the day care, but seeing all of those babies, just got a bit much for her.

I don't know much about the afterlife or whether Mary's beliefs are true or not, I just know that being around her makes me think of God in a way I never thought of Him before. That's real nice sometimes, but also a bit scary.

But that night, holding my wife's hand, that ornament just seemed like a slap in my Mary's face.

Here was my girl, her eyes swollen red with tears, looking blankly at the bathtub, while the Mary, lookin' like she was gonna pop out Jesus any second, looked down at her with a smirk.

I was about to rip the ornament off the door, when Mary got this fiery look in her eyes, "don't you dare."

I backed away.

And this ain't right to say, but I still hate that stupid ornament and everything it represents.

* * *

We pass through these small towns that look like they're hiding a serial killer in every nook and cranny; isolated outposts and logger towns. We used to live up here in the Northwest, but I'm still not used to the chill. It's April, and it was raining hard all week, now the downpour gave way to a short drizzle.

I look at Soda and I know that he wants to jump out of the car and run around in the rain. Me? I can't believe that I only have on a pair of freakin' leggings and a thin sweatshirt on.

Welcome to Canada.

After getting lost, we finally found Pony and Aimee's house. I've never been out of the country before. Soda and me, we traveled and lived all over the United States, we only settled back in his hometown last year; but I've never been to a different country.

My daddy is Chicano, and both of his parents were born in Mexico and moved to the United States right before he was born. He was the youngest of eight, and the only one born in the United States. My grandparents never learned English, so Daddy would translate for us.

Mama was an Irish girl, born and bred in California, but with her dark hair, thick brows and dark eyes, she sorta looked Mexican and her married name, Theresa Hernandez, fooled a lot of people too.

But, we never spoke Spanish at home, never visited our cousins in Mexico and besides our names, we don't have any connection to that part of our heritage at all.

I wanted to take Spanish in high school, but Daddy made me take French instead.

Years later, I figured that the reason my Daddy didn't want us to learn Spanish, didn't want his parents to learn English, and always insisted on translating between us was because he wanted to control us.

Wanted us all to be his little puppets, always dependent on him.

I hate my Daddy. I know that ain't very Christian of me, and I pray every night for God to change my heart, because He's sure not going to change my Daddy's heart at this stage of the game; but it's hard.

Especially when I see him with my nieces. Rick and LaDonna, their oldest baby is Jessica. I don't know much about genes (too busy experimenting doing my own biology project with the star quarterback when I was supposed to be in biology class), but despite having parents with dark hair, she has this beautiful blonde hair, baby-blue eyes and real pale skin. Recessive genes? I guess that's what it called.

Well, my Daddy just spoils that girl rotten. Whatever she wants, she gets. She throws temper tantrums, and he just laughs it off. I wouldn't have a problem with it, except when it comes to Michelle. Michelle is the next oldest daughter and she looks just like him, has the same jet black hair, dark eyes and brown skin.

He practically ignores her. Once, she accidently ruined his cigar, and he whupped her with his belt. She was three. I was glad I only heard about it. Because, if I or Soda saw that, let's just say, I don't think my Daddy would be above ground today.

Soda is real sweet with all of the girls, but he goes out of his way to spend extra time with Michelle, calling her "beautiful girl", especially if my Daddy is around. It's just another reason why I hate my father love my husband in almost equal measures.

Soda honks the car, about five times.

"Stop that, you're gonna wake up the baby," I move his hand away from the steering wheel, he just flashes me a sheepish grin.

Yeah, he's sorta absent minded sometimes.

Pony comes out and before you know it, Soda has him in a bear hug and is squeezing the shit out of him. That's the thing about my husband, he doesn't hug a lot of people, but the people he does hug, you don't ever forget it.

Pony though, is used to Soda's full on hugs, cause he was pulling Soda into a bear hug of his own. Pony also has height and weight on his big brother, so he was practically lifting Soda off the ground.

I like Pony. He lived with us for a while when we traveled the country. He's quiet and nice, and I know if I was married to him, I would get bored after five minutes. I need someone with excitement, edge, someone like Sodapop.

I stand outside the car, "you two gonna keep on going, or can I get a hug too?" I cross my arms and smirk, and Pony looks kind of embarrassed. If I thought Soda was sensitive, he got nothing on his brother. Which is another reason that Pony, as sweet as he is and as much as I love him, would be fuckin' hell to be married to.

"Hey, Mary," he gives me a light hug, like he's afraid he's gonna crush me or something.

Soda is grinning from ear to ear. "Aww, man, let me get a look at you, Daddy." He grabs a hold of his brother's wrists and holds it for a second and there is just something powerful and intimate about what they have. They're closer than brothers.

Pony breaks out into a shy smile and I grin because Soda is so damn happy for him and because Pony really does look content.

Tired and disheveled too, with a bit of baby spit up on the shoulder of his University of Vancouver sweatshirt.

"I gained some weight, huh?" Pony didn't seem upset at all, and yeah, he did gain a few pounds since the last time we saw him. Wouldn't kill him to lose ten or fifteen pounds.

I've seen pictures of him when he was a little kid, and he was freakin' adorable. I mean, not as cute as Soda, but pretty damn cute with his red hair and greenish eyes. He was short too.

Not anymore, he shot up. He's gotta be at least 6'0, maybe even an inch or so taller. He's a big guy too, big boned and everything. His hair had gotten darker since he was a teenager and he now sports a rather thick beard.

But he still got a beautiful face that reminds me so much of Soda, except not quite as good looking, in my opinion. His eyes though, are these real large piercing eyes that stand out even more against his dark hair and beard.

He ain't really my type, I prefer my men more a bit leaner, but if I wasn't married, or if I wasn't totally in love with my husband, when he looks at me with those beautiful, kind eyes of his… yeah, I can see why he used to turn heads back in the day.

"Look at your beard man!" Soda chuckles and puts his arm on Pony's shoulder.

"Just tryin'to keep up with the loggers around here, am I doing a good job?" Pony smirks right back at Soda. I have a feeling he enjoys seeing his brother's reaction, and I gotta admit, he looks REAL different with his beard and hair like that.

Soda has a nice beard and a moustache, courtesy of the best hairdresser in Tulsa; but Pony's beard sorta looks like he's tryin' for the Grizzly Adams look.

"Keepin' up with loggers? You look wilder than I did when I lived in the fuckin' jungle!" Soda gives his brother a playful punch on the shoulder.

I snort, "lived in the jungle? Hell, you were in there for how many weeks before your ass went back to base?"

Soda spent a year in Vietnam, including a few week deep in the jungle in a no-man's zone where some real bad stuff happened. I don't like thinking about it though. He was sent back to Base and he told me that those few weeks changed him in ways that he still doesn't understand.

My man has never hurt me in anyway, he doesn't even yell at me, but whenever I see him erupt in anger at others, when I see his face contort into rage and pain; I wonder how much of that is due to those few weeks.

Soda just laughs, "baby, when you're drinking your own urine, and battlin' malaria and the Cong, one day feels like a century."

"Whatever, hot shot, I've seen worse during prom week at the salon."

Pony looks uncomfortable and he's making me uncomfortable. It's like he doesn't get that Soda and I joke about his time in the war, just like he doesn't get why we joke about using drugs.

It's the only way we can deal. Because if I think, if I really think of all the stuff my beautiful, wonderful husband did and had done to him, I would break down.

So, we joke.

It's either that or cry, and I ain't cryin' today.

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns**

Yes, for your eagle readers, Darry ends up with THE Cathy Carlson of TWTTIN fame (also by S.E. Hinton) brawhahawa!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: The adorable Curtis pups, Rex and Hunt, are named in homage to the fabulous Happier Than Most characters, Hunt and Rex Curtis. They are the twin sons of her amazing Soda. They were mentioned in passing in her story 'Fixed.' Although for the sake of her Soda, I do hope HER twins have better luck with toilet training. ;) Grip as in Grip's Gym is also a homage to her Soda's son, Grip.**

 **This is one of those chapters where nothing happens, but we get a bit Pony talking about dogs, brothers and daughters.**

* * *

Aimee and Mary are out in our garage, smoking cigarettes. Rather, Mary is smoking and Aimee is drinking iced tea. Aimee doesn't smoke, but she asked what brand of cigarette Mary smokes so we could have some extra on hand for her.

Only Aimee would think of making sure we had the right cigarettes on hand for our guests. It's a small gesture, but that's just one of the reasons why I love Aimee, she's always thinking of the small things that slip everyone else's minds.

That leaves me, Soda, Paige and the two pups, Hunt and Rex in the house. Hunt and Rex aren't so much pups anymore, but they're golden retrievers who have the energy (and the occasional accident) of newborn puppies. Their names are misnomers. Instead of being the menacing hunting dogs that their names and the 'beware of dogs' sign Aimee put up in our front yard, implies; they have the killer instinct of two teddy bears.

They're golden brown, forever hyper and happy and they remind me a bit of Soda, sans of course their lack of bladder control when they're excited.

They love everyone, even the mailman, who can't stand me because I can never remember to include enough postage for my letters home. Who the hell can remember to include the extra cent on a 26 cent letter anyways?

The dogs can be a bit overly demonstrative with that love, unlike, for example, my mailman, but a bit like my brother.

Usually, Soda is right down on the ground rolling around and playing with them; their third brother, as it were. And once again, Hunt and Rex greeted Soda and Mary with their tails wagging like the wings on a mechanical bird.

"Wow, didn't know we were so popular among the canine set," Soda puffed up his chest in a look of (sort of) mock superiority at me.

"Yeah, they wag their tails when they visit the goddamn vet to get their vaccinations sit your skinny ass down," I drawled.

Mary winced and I cringed. I forgot that Mary, for all of her swearing and tough talk, is very devout and the whole 'goddamn' thing went down as well as cod liver oil. The large tattoo of the Virgin Mary on her right forearm should have tipped me off right away.

"Ah, I'm sorry Mary…I didn't mean…"

Soda, ever the peacemaker, threw his arm around my shoulder, "aww, don't worry about him, love," In a stage whisper he said to her, "we'll sprinkle holy water on him on the way out."

 _Ha ha. Jesus Christ._

But that got her laughing though.

Soda loves Mary and Mary adores Soda, but still, it's comical to picture my goof-off brother being married to someone who reads the Bible for _fun_. In her tote bag, she had a copy of the Bible and a copy of _Helter Skelter_. She loves true crime stories as well.

But, after granting Rex and Hunt the most half-assed game of fetch in history, Soda went straight to Paige. Hunt and Rex both whimpered in unison and flashed Soda the most pathetic expression this side of me meeting with my editor.

I tried step in and play hero and with a too-large grin on my face tried to entice them with their favorite squeak toys (hamburger for Hunt, a bone for Rex). Rex merely rolled his eyes at me and led Hunt out of the living room. If you don't think a dog can roll his eyes, you haven't met Rexilus Gent-Curtis.

I better get used to it though, I'm sure I'll face the same look from Paige in about 13 years. I'm pretty sure Darry is already facing that look from Karen.

It's a bit cooler than normal for April and we have the heater blasting away. It's strange, I grew up in a place where you could still wear a light jacket in the middle of December, and now live in a place where we have to turn the heater on in early April.

But I love it up here. The cool, crisp winds that cuts through whatever fog clouds my mind, the deep green pine forests and azure blue lakes; it is beautiful and peaceful here, but so very _alive_.

You _feel_ it here.

As for the cold, which used to annoy the hell out of me, I've adjusted.

Now I can't imagine spring without a cool breeze hitting the back of my neck just so.

I guess it's a bit hot for Soda, who is normally comfortable in any climate, because he's taken off his shirt, revealing his enviable tanned and taut physique.

And for the first time, though he has no idea the effect it has on me, I'm thinking of finally making a trip into town and joining "Grip's Gym." Their catchy slogan: _"Get a Grip, with Grip's!_ " No, I did not come up with that genius slogan, but I did, at one time, briefly work for the California branch of big New York ad agency.

While our wives are in the garage, presumably plotting our destruction, the dogs are wreaking havoc (presumably on my bed) Soda sits crossed legged, naked except for his dark blue Levis.

From a certain angle, with his wavy dark blonde hair that lands just below his chin and his clean but full beard, he looks a bit like a smoldering Jesus, a smoldering Jesus with well-defined pectoral muscles and I'm wondering if that's what attracted Mary to my brother in the first place.

 _He touched me, indeed._

I swear, I'm going to hell.

But he sits cross legged, his back, for once, isn't angled forward, but ramrod straight his legs are crossed and I half-way expect to hear Soda ben Darrel of Tulsa start chanting 'om' in his soft, but deep, southern drawl.

But Yogi Soda keeps quite.

Paige is lying in his arms. She looks up at her Uncle and blinks a few times, before cooing and reaching out to grab his beard. She's already completely comfortable in his arms. My daughter, she's a good judge of character.

Soda opens his mouth slightly, as if he wants to say something, but instead, he closes it and looks down at my daughter and in that moment those two are the only people in the world.

"You did this," Soda looks up at me in awe, "you created this," and he looks down at Paige and gently rubs his thumb along her hairline.

"Yeah, Aimee might have a played a small part too," I say with a smirk; but I'm wondering where this sarcasm has come from and why I can't just fully enjoy the perfectness and wholeness of this moment as it is.

Darry and I both use sarcasm to hide our emotions, but never with Soda. With Soda we can be real and vulnerable and emotional, but the older I get the more I find myself losing that bravery with my feelings that I used to have as a fourteen year old and that Soda has never lost touch with.

Soda just grins, "she has your hair and your eyes," he looks at her closely, "your ears too," he says with a wink.

Yeah, our ears kind of stick out.

"She's perfect, Pony," he says in a voice as serious and assured as I've ever heard from Darry.

And she is, she really is, my daughter is perfect.

I'm looking at two of the most important people in my world. A brother whom I once thought was lost forever and a daughter whom I couldn't even imagine having a year ago. Now, yeah, I'm going to break a writer's rule and use a cliché, I cannot imagine my life without them.

I'm also picturing Mr. Syme, my high school English teacher, and to this day the best teacher I ever had, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up with exasperation. Poor Mr. Syme, if only he could see the amount of spelling and grammatical errors my poor editors have to deal with!

But despite the love I feel for them and for Aimee and Darry and for everyone, there is a dull ache that sinks my heart. I can assure you, despite the bit of extra weight I've put on since college; I'm not having a heart attack.

It is an ache that is caused by guilt. I have so much. Yeah, financially we're struggling a little bit, but I have Aimee, my pups and now our daughter. I have so damn much. Darry too. Don't get me wrong, he and Cathy deserve every bit of what they have; they both have worked impossibly hard to get to where they are today.

But knowing how much Paige has given to me and Aimee, and how much my nephews and niece have given to Darry and Cathy, I want Soda to have the same thing.

Out of all three of us, Soda was the one who always wanted kids. Not just one or two, but a house full of 'em. When I was little, he promised me he would name one of them, Ponyboy Jr. after me. Even Darry, who parented me through some rough patches, and whom I seek parenting advice from, never connected with kids on the visceral level the way Soda does.

He's a natural.

Soda looked at me and he gave a sad smile, and I know he's beyond happy for me and Aimee; but I also know that he's thinking of his own son, whom he never got a chance to hold.

My stomach feels uneasy because I never wanted my brother to feel that pain of losing Patrick again. It's the pain he must feel every time he holds Karen or C.D., Billy and now, Paige.

But you know what? For whatever pain my brother is in, he is our family, and our childrens' most fierce cheerleader. He's Karen and C.D.'s partner-in-crime, and to Darry and Cathy's occasional consternation, their biggest spoiler and defender.

Paige fusses a bit but Soda kisses the top of her head and she calms down, and for all of my sarcasm, for all of my jadedness, there is something so beautiful and pure about that moment.

But then again, there is something so pure about my daughter and my brother.

Do you know when a room just feels heavy? I mean, truly heavy with emotion and with love and with the feeling of the sweet and the bitter?

That was my living room as I stood against my purple couch and looked on as my brother and my daughter stared at each other and I know Soda felt it too.

I didn't have the words for him. "I'm so sorry, Soda," I wanted to tell him, but before I could say anything, Aimee and Mary walked back into our house.

They were talking about the Fleetwood Mac tour, oh, yeah, Aimee is a huge Fleetwood Mac fan.

Paige was leaning against her Uncle's chest, and Mary grinned, "you figurin' on breast feedin' her?"

Thank God for Mary.

Soda just burst out full body laughter, which made Paige burst into cries.

"Aww, sorry, Pages," he chuckled and cooed at her, giving my daughter her pet nickname.

Not wanting to be left out, Rex and Hunt, fresh from their own adventures, rushed into the living room and happily yelping and barking.

Aimee, Mary, and I stood in the living room with a laughing man, a crying baby and two barking dogs.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **"He Touched Me" is a reference/title of a 1964 gospel song by Bill Gaither.**

 **Helter Skelter is the book about the Manson Family murders written by Vincent Bugliosi. Yes, I imagine Mary, also being OBSESSED with true crime stories.**

 **Aimee has great taste in music, Fleetwood Mac rocks. ;**

 **Truly appreciate everyone who has read, reviewed, liked, followed this story. Y'all are the true rock stars! ;)**

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**


	3. Chapter 3

"That man thought I was a boy!"

My five year old daughter, Karen, is sitting across from me, her arms crossed in a show of defiance. For about the tenth time that day I count to ten, silently in my head. And you know what? It doesn't help worth shit.

I need a Dramamine or an Excedrin. Beer wouldn't be that bad right now either. Hell, give me an entire keg, just pour it into my mouth.

"Karen, sweetie," I try to say in as patient and controlled of a voice as I can manage, which after this morning, my patience is approximately the size of a neuron.

"Karen, that man didn't mean anything by it. Okay? Do you think we can just eat our," I scan the menu, "Moose Jr. burgers?" I roll my eyes at the description, _"by Maple you'll be having a begging, Canadian Bacon that is, for one of our delicious Moose Junior burgers!"_

But Karen just slams her foot on the ground, "now everyone thinks I'm a boy!" She glares up at me while she's trying to pound ketchup out of the bottle and onto her hamburger.

"Here," I say, and grab the ketchup bottle from her and easily pound out the ketchup.

"You didn't make a smiley face…" She pouts and looks down dejectedly at her Moose Jr. burger.

I take the butter knife and turn the glob of Heinz into a smiley face.

A week ago Soda was babysitting the kids while Cathy and I attended a cocktail party at Hillcrest where Cathy works in the administrative department.

Soda had made a smiley face with the ketchup complete with mustard hair, on the burger he fixed up for Karen. He started to do the same for her four year old brother, Carlson-Darrel, but C.D. exclaimed that he didn't want a smiley face but "something real gross!"

Soda was more than happy to oblige. He added, from what I understand, the always reliable green food coloring and smashed the burger up so that it looked like it came out of the other end, if you get my drift. He also added a 'bloody' trail of ketchup blood and 'mustard boogers.'

Soda insisted that the 'mustard boogers' were all C.D.'s idea, but knowing my brother, I figured it was a consensus decision.

He had a bright grin on his face as he was describing on he and C.D. kept on tryin' to out-gross each other.

"You know what he said Darry? He said he wanted the burger to look like 'soggy monster brains and boogers,' that kid of yours, man, he's a riot, Dar."

Soda's explanation made me smile in spite of myself. There are times when I look at Soda and I only see the faintest reflection of the fun, enthusiastic guy we used to know. Soda has changed; he's more serious, more somber, maybe a bit angrier and quicker on the draw now.

And how could he not?

How could he not have changed?

After the hell he experienced? After the years where he was a slave to heroin? Those years where his arms became so shredded up by needle marks and scars it looked like he fell into a damn barbed wire patch…

I don't tell him this, because I'm ashamed of myself, but there are times when I miss the old Soda. It's ironic. I used to spend all of these years chastising my brother and getting on his ass for being such a goof off and so wild.

But, damn it, I miss that Soda. So when I see Soda with my kids, when I see him tickle and wrestle, laugh and goof off with them, I can't help but feel a bittersweet nostalgia.

Anger and shame curse through me when I think of how I want nothing more than the old Soda to come back. He's still Soda. Damn it. He's with us. He's here. He ain't dead, he ain't living on the side of the road doing who-the-fuck-knows-what to get money for his next hit.

He's so much better than he was just a few years ago. It's still a struggle and it's always gonna be a struggle for him, but I'm so fucking proud of all the work he's put into helping himself. I mean it. I don't think I've ever seen anyone work harder and put more blood, sweat and tears into dealing with his demons than my brother.

I admire the hell out of him.

He got himself a solid job, doesn't pay much, but Soda ain't about that. He tells me, "Darry, as long as I can support myself and my wife, that's all that matters to me."

He loves Mary and they're renting what used to be Steve Randle's old house. They put a lot of work into rehabbing the place up. It needed it too. Mr. Randle let that place go to shit, shutters falling down, heater that doesn't work, busted up bathroom pipe.

Since that night with their Uncle, C.D. has complained every time Cathy tries to give him the type of food that doesn't look like the cat shat it out.

"Uncle Soda makes cool food. This food is boring, Mommy!"

Thanks Uncle Soda!

My daughter snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Thanks," she said in a small voice, and I smile at her, thinking we're all going to be done with this foolishness.

But Karen, she's my firecracker. She's stubborn and she doesn't back down, so before I could take a bite out my burger Karen was back at it.

"You didn't even correct him!"

 _I swear to God…_

"Karen…" I lean down so I'm at her level, a couple of inches away from her face, I look directly into her blue-green eyes, and she's staring right back at me. Her defiant glower reminds me of the glare I used to get from Ponyboy when I yelled at him for hanging out with Curly Shepard instead of working on his college applications.

Thanks to Ponyboy I developed immunity to the type of b.s. kids have tried on their parents since the caveman's day.

"…it's not that big of deal. He was an elderly man. He probably wouldn't have even heard me if I tried to correct him. I know you're a beautiful _girl,_ so does Mommy, okay? Do you think we can drop this once and for all?"

I gave her that look that I mastered some thirteen years ago when in the blink of an eye I went from being a big brother to a guardian and stand-in parent.

The look that says, 'stop the crap or get ready to deal with the consequences, and you ain't gonna like dealing with the consequences…"

Strangely it works better on thirteen year old brothers than five year old daughters.

Karen merely takes a sip of her chocolate milk, and I'm trying not to chuckle at the sight of her chocolate milk moustache the covers her upper lip.

This whole ordeal was because Karen has a new, short pixie haircut. It's much easier to deal with short hair in the morning than the long ponytail she used to wear. Figures, the moment I learned how to braid her hair, "you don't do it like Mommy does, Mommy does it real good," was the moment she wanted to chop the whole thing off.

Personally, I think she's as cute as the dickens, and it's not just because she's my daughter; but in her grey "Dinotown" t-shirt and blue jeans, and blue sneakers it is easy for the Septuagenarian set to confuse her at a sideway glance as being a boy.

On the way to visit Pony and Aimee and everyone, we stopped at Maple Burger after C.D. saw the 20 ft balloon moose dressed like a Mountie from the road. The waiters are dressed like Mounties and the menus are shaped like maple leaves. It's one of those places where they charge gullible tourists 20% more than anyone in their right mind would pay for a burger that can barely be called a 'snack.'

But it was Billy, our one year old, who made the decisive decision for us to stop at Maple Burger when he conveniently vomited all over Cathy just as we were driving past the restaurant. C.D., who can never resist the gross and the messy, thought it would also be a good idea to jump into every damn mud puddle in the parking lot.

On the last one, he fell right on his butt, getting his entire outfit soaked.

"See, that's what you get," Cathy scolded him while gently brushing his hair back.

Cathy was in the bathroom, trying to clean up the boys, while I was on dad duty with Karen.

It was then that the elderly patron in his khakis, white and grey striped dress shirt and blue fishing hat commented that Karen was 'a handsome little fella,' setting off a 15 minute melt down.

Even with cleaning up vomit, William's full diaper and C.D. covered in mud…

I was pretty sure I had the harder end of the deal.

Maple Burger is made up, but Dinoland was a real theme park in British Columbia, opened at this time.

S.E. Hinton owns.

Thank you SO, SO much for your amazing reviews and support. To everyone who has reviewed, liked, followed or read this story: Gracias. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Soda and I are sitting in the front seat of my orange 1972 Pinto. It's a piece of junk, I swear, Steve Randle almost had a heart attack when he saw it.

"Damn it Curtis, I should beat your ass…"

I smirked and roll my eyes, "yeah, it's the only thing we can afford right now…"

"Not you, Pintoboy," Steve snaps, pointing to Soda, "your brother, can't believe he let you get away with driving that piece of shit…"

 _Speaking of…_

"Hey Soda," I inquire as I grab for the lighter in his side pocket. "How are Steve and Evie and the boys?"

Steve and Evie have two boys, Steve Jr. and Levi, they're a few years older than Karen and C.D. They already got their Dad's scowl down pat.

Soda pushes my hand away and pulls the green lighter and hands it to me.

"Hey Pone you still smokin' Kools?" He crinkles his nose.

"Yeah, I say, "sorry we all can't live out our fantasies to be the next Marlboro Man like you."

I swear, that's the only reason why Soda smokes that brand.

"They're good. Evie is gonna let Mary cut her hair. Said she wants something real different." Soda lights up my cigarette for me and then lights his own.

I let out a small chuckle, if Evie wants 'different' she's sure going to the right person.

Mary was adventurous with her hair styles, at least, that was the polite way to put it. "Adventurous", "Creative" "Crazy", you know, all pretty much the same thing.

If you want to look like Farah Fawcett you go to any of the dozens of salons in downtown Tulsa. You want to look like Siouxsie Sioux, then Mary is your woman.

I try to picture long, straight hair, part down the middle, Evie, with a Mohawk or with blue hair; heck, I couldn't even picture her in a Dorothy Hamill cut and even my mother-in-law sports the Dorothy Hamill look.

Evie Randle has had the same haircut since the day she and Steve got married.

I'm not sure if Mary even knew how to give a normal haircut.

She did a good job with Soda's hair though. It was a bit past his shoulders, and it frames his face nicely.

"You think about going for a Mohawk, Soda?" I tease.

He takes a long drag on his crappy Marlboro, "nah, my wife won't let me."

I always knew Mary was smart.

We have the windows rolled down and the air is cold, but not bitter. Every few seconds, the wind hits my face, my eyes, my nostrils and my hair.

Soda has one arm resting on the window, his legs are curled up underneath him and his eyes look out in the distance. He squints even though the afternoon sun is hiding behind the clouds.

Neither of us are saying anything, or making eye contact. But it doesn't matter, because we're together, healthy and alive.

Soda has this presence, always has, and just being with Soda makes me feel better.

I can hear my brother's voice cackle in my mind, "yeah, Pone, because I'm such a screw up, I make everyone's life look better by comparison." But I mean it.

My brother, he's not a screw up. Yeah, he screwed up a lot. He hurt us, worst of all, he hurt himself, but he's not a screw up. Never has been, never will be.

He's a good man.

Smoking cancer sticks in the ugliest car known to mankind?

With Soda by my side?

Hell yeah.

"You know man, I wish you would consider movin' back to Tulsa…"

I sigh, "are we gonna get into…" Ever since I've moved up here both of my brothers have been trying to cajole Aimee and me to move to Oklahoma.

"I'd think you were glad to get rid of me," I said to Darry the last time I visited.

"Oh, I am," Darry said with a too-huge grin, "it's just we really want Aimee around."

"But," Soda butts in, "I guess we'll take you too, seein' how the two of you are sorta a package deal now."

Darry, with the subtlety of a Mac Truck spent that entire visit trying to convince me to move back. "Why do you want to live up there? It's so damn expensive." Soda, with a lighter, if no more effective approach, "I can see why you live up there Pony, but if you and Aimee ever feel the itch to move back home, I'll be up there with a moving truck before ya can say 'boo.' Mary too."

"No, I won't," Mary deadpanned from the living room, in between talking back to the contestants on "Match Game."

In the car, Soda rolls his window up slightly, my window is already all the way up. I like the cold, but not that much.

But Soda is comfortable in all sorts of weather. I swear, you could drop him off in the middle of the Sahara or the Artic and he'd be happy.

He doesn't do normal, mild temperatures. Too boring for him. He needs the extremes.

Soda just shakes his head, "no, I get why you and Aimee love it up here. It's peaceful, you know? But it's wild at the same time."

"It's a beautiful land," I say softly, recalling the conversation I had with my brother years ago.

He gives me a sad smile, he knows exactly what I'm talking about. He squeezes my arm.

"Yeah, and thanks to you, I see that. So, I guess what I'm saying is that I get it, Pone, I really do. This is your home."

His words hit me. I've been calling this place my home for a while, and of course it is. But hearing the finality in Soda's words shakes me a bit. This is my home. My home is no longer in Tulsa, no longer with Soda and Darry.

That's the way it should be, right? We should grow up and move out and explore the world. I mean, it's not like I wanted to be like Two-Bit and still living with his mom, Mrs. Mathews is a saint, by the way.

Honest to God. I love Two-Bit, but how she manages to put up with him…

I missed us though. I missed the three of us. We were fucking invincible. Darry and Soda know me in a way that maybe not even Aimee does.

But now, me, the one brother who didn't think he could live without them, has moved away and started his own life.

I have my wife, my child and my dogs, and my life up in Canada.

Darry and Soda have their lives where every day they pass by the same people and places that we've known since childhood.

Even being away from Tulsa I know that blindfolded I could still find my way home from Will Rogers, or the DX where Steve and Soda used to work, or the lot.

Steve now lives in our old house. Soda passes it every day. Yeah, Soda lives in Steve's old house, and Steve and his family live in our old house. Steve's house has four bedrooms compared to our three, and a good-sized basement.

"Perfect for hiding the dead bodies," Aimee whispered to me. Aimee has a dark sense of humor, once you get to know her. Which is another reason why I'm crazy about her.

But now my old house, Crutchfield Park, Sutton Street, the empty lot where Buck's used to sit, that ain't mine anymore.

I don't know how to feel. Part of me feels a deep sadness that comes from being ripped away, even voluntarily, from the places that used to be mine. The places that I knew and could claim. But part of me also feels relieved to escape the chains and nets of my past.

We can create new memories up here, Aimee, me, and now Paige.

The three of us.

"So," Sod yawns, "when's Darry and his crew comin' up?"

I look at my watch, "he said around 7:00 P.M., I could hear Karen and C.D. fighting with each other over the phone."

Soda grabs his chest in a look of mock surprise, "my Karen, fighing? Lordy!"

I roll my eyes and pound his shoulder, "oh please, you're the one who taught her how to fight in the first place."

Soda grinned and rolled his sleeve up, "she's a bruiser," he said with not a small bit of pride. If Karen did bruise Soda, it was gone by the time I saw his arm.

"Billy is real cute," Soda continued, "he's a little monkey though, always climbing and getting into stuff. He's bigger than C.D. was at that age. That's for sure."

I hadn't seen my youngest nephew since he was two months old and I was looking forward to seeing him now. Karen and C.D. are both spitting images of Cathy, including their matching turned up noses, freckled face and chipmunk cheeks, while Billy is all Darry.

"Good," Mary joked, while looking at Billy resting in his mom's arms, "with your first two I was beginning to suspect the milkman was the Daddy…"

"Can't believe they finally had a planned pregnancy…" I smirk at Soda.

Soda bursts out laughing. Our perfect brother and his perfect wife had not just one, but two unplanned pregnancies in a row.

One, I can understand. But, two? A year apart?

Soda and I of course, being Darry's loving, compassionate brothers did our brotherly duty and teased him mercilessly.

After all of his lectures, "Pony you get a girl pregnant and I'll skin you alive," I figured he deserved his comeuppance.

"Well, DADDY, you do know you're supposed to put the condom on before you have sex, right?" I wisecracked over a bowl of chili at _Diane's_ when Darry told me that Cathy was pregnant.

Of course, just my luck Mr. Carlson walked by right when I made that quip.

Darry looked like he wanted to kill me, while Cathy's dad looked like he wanted to kill Darry.

I wanted to kill my big mouth.

Soda looks at me, his eyes full of warmth but also an edge. He's gone through a lot over the last ten years. Truthfully, I don't think Darry and I could survive what he's gone though. Darry might, but not me. I could barely survive seeing Soda the way he was.

"Mary and me, we're tryin' to have a baby."

I didn't know what to say.

"I didn't know that Soda," I said softly.

Soda turns around so he faces me completely, "yeah, for a year. We've been tryin' for 12 months."

I let out a low whistle, "I'm so sorry Soda, have you guys thought about going to a doctor?" The air in the car feels heavy. I knew my brother and his wife wanted a kid, I didn't know they've been actively trying for 12 months.

Soda shakes his head, "nah, she refuses to see a doctor. You know, it's like she's afraid of what the doc might say. That the doc might confirm her worst fears, but if she doesn't go to the doc, she can still trick herself into thinking that maybe she can have a baby."

Soda brushes his hair behind his ears and I see the worry lines etched onto my brother's otherwise youthful face.

"Well, maybe you can have kids, some people just take a while…"

Soda cuts me off, "we've been doin' everything Pony. I don't even like having sex anymore. She treats sex like a chore. Vacuuming, washing dishes, fucking me," he says in a bitter tone.

He lets out a small, unamused chuckle, "I hate having sex now Pony. I see my wife in bed and I feel dread because I know that all she wants is my sperm."

I shake my head, "that ain't true Soda, Mary is crazy about you,"

Soda brings his hand to his forehead, "yeah, I know, but Mary she is so obsessed with having a baby now. You know she drives ten minutes out of her way to get to the salon just so she don't gotta pass the Baby outlet store on 1st?"

Soda started to laugh, but I could tell he was close to tears and I put my hands on his shoulder. Willing him with my mind to calm down.

"You know last month I had the flu durin' her fertile period so we couldn't have sex, and she didn't talk to me for a week."

"I can't take it anymore, Pony." His voice breaks up, even though he's trying his best to keep the tears from flowing.

"Mary, she deserves to have a baby. She's be an awesome mama. Me? I fucked up with my kid."

My heart drops at the mention of Patrick, my brother's son, our nephew, whom Soda hasn't seen since he was born.

"After Patrick, I don't deserve a kid, but Mary? Yeah, she's so good, Pony. She's a real good woman. And now got this fresh hell, her screwed up husband can have kids but she can't?"

His voice raises, "where the hell is the fairness in that? Where is God when she cries herself to sleep every night."

"It ain't fair," I say. It wasn't. It wasn't fair that Patrick, wherever he is now, is missing out on having Soda for a father. It's not fair that Soda can't raise his son. It's not fair that Mary can't have kids. The whole situation sucks.

Not after everything he and Mary went through. Not after they both got clean.

"Patrick," my brother said softly, "he turned ten a few weeks ago." My brother looks down at his kneecap, a painful smile on his face.

He closes his eyes tightly and his jaw clenches and I know he's thinking of that horrible night he saw his son for the last time.

I know that he has never and will never forgive himself for what he did that night. Even if after therapy he's able to understand that he was in the midst of a break from reality when he attacked Patrick's mother.

Even if we forgive him ten-fold, because we know Soda, and we know Soda would never hurt his child's mother on purpose.

He looks up at me, and my brother, my strong, big brother, looks so lost right now that I feel almost sick.

"I lost my kid Pony, but I can't handle losing Mary too. I just want my wife back." His voice breaks at the end and I can tell he's using everything he has to keep it together.

"Damn it, Pony, I want my stupid fuckin' wife back! AHH!" He screams and pounds his fists against the dashboard his face is red.

He's this close to hitting his head against the dashboard when I firmly pull him back.

"It's okay, Soda, it's okay," I pull him closer to me and give him a hug. I'm bigger than he is now, but I'm surprised at how easily he falls into me.

More than anything, I want to take his pain away from him. I want to help him and Mary.

He calms down and lets out a small chuckle, "well, you know me, can't go without my daily breakdown," he smirks at me.

I smile back at him.

"You still follow football up here?" The subject and his mood changes in a flash.

I grin, truthfully, I hadn't really been following football. I liked playing it as a kid with the gang, but unlike Darry or even Soda, I was never really into watching it.

"Well," I begin.

"I fell off the wagon Pony."

He stares without emotion at the disappearing horizon.

My stomach feels like ice, I want to punch my brother. After all he's gone through, after all he's overcome, he's back to square one?

"Heroin?" I asked, trying to keep the anger and disappointment out of my voice. My brother was a heroin addict for years, but he's clean now.

Soda doesn't look at me, "I would never do heroin again, Ponyboy."

"What is it?" As wrong as it is, I'm hoping that it's just alcohol. Alcohol we can deal with. There are those twelve step programs and AA meetings, I can talk to Darry about getting Soda into some sort of treatment program.

I know Soda takes pills for his PTSD and anxiety, and I hope to God it ain't that. Not after we got him to finally go into therapy in the first place.

"Cocaine," he whispers it softly.

A whimper escapes my mouth. Mary used cocaine and heroin and occasionally she and Soda would do grass and LSD.

The only reason Mary is alive today is because of Soda helped her get clean. She was even more snared up in drugs than Soda.

Soda can read my mind because he says quickly, "Mary doesn't know about it. She's tryin' to get pregnant, for pete's sake, she's clean as a whistle."

I nod, feeling a tinge of guilt that I jumped to conclusions.

"Please, Pony," he pleads, "it was only one time. I was doin' so good."

I don't say anything, but I roll down my window.

It's suffocating in this car.

* * *

 _ **S.E. Hinton owns**_

 _ **Thank you so much for your reviews, likes, follows and reads. It means the world. :)**_


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: If you're jumping into this story, the premise is a look at the Curtis family in 1978 as they visit Pony and his wife Aimee and their newborn daughter, Paige,** **in Canada.**

 **I'm trying to give different characters chances to narrate. Aimee narrates the second installment in this chapter. Enjoy. :)**

* * *

I feel the bitter, smooth metallic of my tongue ring against the roof of my mouth, a souvenir from Vietnam.

I don't know what the hell I want from Pony when I confess to him that I fell off the wagon.

Forgiveness? Absolution? Hate? Anger? Mercy?

Because I want it _**all.**_

And Ponyboy is the one who person who I can always count to give me what I want.

He's good like that.

When we were little kids it was Pony who always came to me with his problems, and even when he didn't tell me directly what was goin' on, I always had a way of sucking it out of him.

Like a doctor, I'd like to fancy myself, but maybe more like a Vampire.

As close as we were, I never really told Pony what was going on with me. Oh, yeah, surface stuff, but the real deep, dark stuff? That I'd keep locked up inside of me.

That shit, I didn't even tell myself about. I would have been so damn happy to continue to ignore it, but in 'Nam it spewed in my face as a hundred bullets penetrating the wall I built up.

I wanted to protect my brother, and I wanted to protect me. I wanted to protect my image in his mind, you know, keep me clean and pure in a way that I never really was.

But it's different now. It's been different for a while. He's still my kid brother, and I'm still protective as hell over him. You screw with him, and man, I will fuck you up two ways from Tuesday; even though Pony don't need my help on that front anymore. Hell, he probably never did.

Now, he could take me down with one arm tied behind his back.

Darry, I ain't so sure about. Seein' those two rumble each other would be something else. Not that they would ever fight each other, but they're both so evenly matched now, cool and smart that I don't know who would win.

Superman actually manages to look and act younger the older he gets. Must be the wine he and Cathy drink.

Oh yeah, our beer guzzlin' hard ass brother has now got himself a taste for the finer things in life. He's a red wine guy.

Anyway, what I mean to say is that when we were little kids, I protected Pony and Pony would always come to me.

Now, it's the other way around. Now it's Pony who I confess to. He's my chaplain, my therapist, my buddy, all in one.

He ought to charge me by the hour. Not that I could afford to pay him. Heck, I can barely afford my meds and therapy right now and those I get at a reduced rate through the VA.

Mary, her salon ain't doin' too hot, but I make an okay wage down at the oil refinery. Just wouldn't mind bringing in more cash for my family, but with our bills and my horse, especially since Mary is tryin' to have a kid.

My wife, she's a smart cookie, but she's so gripped about having a child that I think even if we were on the streets, she would still be calculating her fertile days and telling me when we could have sex.

"Gotta save your baby juice, baby" she tells me when I wanna fuck her during her off time.

Oh yeah, I have a horse. I do some part time work over at the same stables I worked as a kid. The money I earn mostly goes into takin' care of Spiderman. C.D. named him.

Karen wanted to name him Ginger. When I told her that Spiderman was a boy, she just told me, "call him Mr. Ginger."

"Like Mr. Tibbs," Pony said dryly when I called him to tell him the story. I didn't get it, but Pone explained to me that was a movie reference.

Course, the money I earn from the stables never seems to be enough to cover food, and grooming and the costs of the vet and the dozens of other 'tiny' expenses which end up burning a big hole in my wallet.

Yeah, I know owning a horse ain't the best use of my finances, but I'm crazy about Spiderman. He's a bit more passive and docile than Mickey Mouse was, but I guess I need that now.

Ain't never getting rid of him.

As for my brother, I need his approval.

His approval is like smack for me, once you take that first hit, you need more of it, or else you're gonna find yourself curled up in a bathroom shaking and vomiting.

But, it ain't right. It ain't right to constantly dump my problems on my brother like this. He's got a beautiful wife and newborn baby, they should be the only people on his mind. Not his screwed-up brother.

I look carefully at Pony when I tell him that I used. I can see the disappointment on his face, the way his body sinks inwards, repulsed even. And I'm pissed off.

Who the fuck is he to judge? Besides, it was one time. One fuckin' time. Man alive.

But then I see this look of compassion and love fill his face, the way his hands reach out for me. Trying to embrace my demons. Never shying away from the messy side of being my brother.

The way he looks at me so much understanding…

And that pisses me off even more. Because I don't deserve that either. I don't deserve his and Darry's constant forgiveness and mercy.

I feel guilt when I see Pony mentally blaming Mary. But truth is, maybe deep inside, I sorta blame her too.

It's wrong. But, I convince myself that the reason I snorted Coke that one night (one time!) was because Mary was drivin' me up the wall with her baby obsession. If she wasn't so crazy to have a baby, then I sure as hell wouldn't need that escape.

It's not my fault, I tell myself. I'm just 'reactin' to circumstances' it's a perversion of what my therapists have tried to teach me.

But of course, it is. Ain't no one responsible for my actions but me. I chose to snort because, I wanted to snort. My wife had nothing to do with my choice.

The only thing that's Mary's fault is wanting to have a baby with a colossal screw up.

"Where did you get the drugs from?" Pony's voice, hard edged, breaks into my thoughts.

"Why?" I laugh, "you figgerin' on beating up the guy who gave it to me?"

He shakes his head, "it ain't funny, Soda."

I let out a sigh, "it was one-time Pony. One time after all these years. Jesus Christ. I shoulda never told you in the first place, I'm sorry, man for draggin' you back into this."

I say this in the most passive-aggressive tone I can muster. Which, I gotta admit, is pretty damn passive AND aggressive. Trying to get my brother to feel bad because I was stupid enough to confess my screw up to him.

But he doesn't give an inch. If anything, he looks steadier, more resolved. As unflappable and determined as Darry.

Somber, even.

He crosses his arm, "no, you ain't doin' this to me Soda. I'm too old for this shit. You're too old for this shit. You ain't gonna drop in, make me worry about you and then try to pretend everythin' is okay. I ain't playing that shit with you."

Over the years Pony has lost his accent. Now, he just sort of sounds like those guys who see reading the news on T.V. But in that moment in his car the Oklahoma comes roaring out like a revved up engine.

He sounded so much like Dad in that moment that I did a double take.

"Pony," I say, my voice dripping with barely contained anger, "it was one time. I ain't gonna do it again, okay? Drop it."

He sighs and fumbles around for the keys.

I mean it too. Yeah, it was fun, but I worked too hard trying to build up what I have to let it all go to waste again.

He lets out another sigh, "I just worry about you, Soda."

Guilt snaps though me. I know he does. I know both he and Darry worry about me. I have no right to do that to either of them. Pony is right, we _are_ too old for this shit.

I'm almost thirty. What the hell am I gonna do if Mary does get pregnant? Sneak out and get my fill every time I get the itch?

I comb my hands through my hair and shoot him a grin, "well, don't be."

He turns the key in the ignition, "we should be gettin' back, Darry and Cathy should be arriving soon."

* * *

Paige is asleep, even more miraculously, the dogs are asleep, and Mary and I are sitting at my kitchen island, sipping pinot grigio.

Pony and I just redid our kitchen, it looks beautiful, warm and inviting, just the type of place I want for my family.

I wanted to breast feed Paige, it was one of those moments I looked forward to most as a mother, feeling my child at my breast, she, drinking and getting her nourishment from me. After carrying her inside of me for nine months, I still needed that intimate communion and connection with my daughter.

After nine months of feeling her every twist, turn, jab and flutter, I still wanted a part of her that was all mine. I still wanted to give my daughter a part of me that belonged to her, and her alone.

The mother and child union on the other side of my womb.

But, it didn't work out and as pathetic as it sounds, when Paige didn't take me, I felt like she was rejecting me.

Me, the woman who spent nearly my entire pregnancy swaying over a toilet bowl, becoming intimately aware of every groove and etch on the toilet seat.

I eye the bottles we have drying on the dishrack, the ceiling light catches them at just the right angle for them to cast shadows onto the sand colored cabinets.

From a certain angle, they look on the bars on a prison cell.

I take a sip of wine.

On the bright side, now I can drink my wine without constraint. So, there's that.

"You okay, Aimee?" Mary asks with concern.

 _How can she tell? Am I that transparent?_

I jump out of my head and into the real world, "hmm mmm, thanks for asking."

"You know what hits the spot for me?" Mary starts, swirling the wine around in the gold trimmed glass, her flamenco pink French manicured nails a perfect match against the pale yellow-green hue of the wine.

"Mimosas. One of the girls at salon, Bet, she was cleaning out her house and she had this entire book, almost an encyclopedia, of cocktail recipes. Gave it to me for 10 cents. I swear, it was like Christmas in July, or maybe Christmas in September, who remembers?!"

Mary has a full, bright laugh and grin.

But I feel anxiety pulsing through me, my heart sinking; of course, _Mimosas_. Why didn't I think of that? Of course, Mary would be a cocktail girl, not a wine person.

 _Cathy drinks wine._ What about Darry? I thought Pony said that Darry was a wine guy, but Darry always seemed more like a gin and tonic guy to me. The kind of guy who would be knee deep in Vodka, except for Vodka's association with the Reds.

"Darry," I begin, "does he drink wine or is he more a hard liquor sort of guy?"

Mary shrugs and shakes her glass slightly, "don't really know, wine, I think." There's a hint of annoyance in her voice. But then she laughs and goes on telling me about the time she met Mick Jagger.

Her story keeps me interested, even though I'm pretty sure I heard this one before, maybe a few dozen, or hundred times.

But who's counting?!

And come on, it's Mick Jagger! I love living vicariously through her.

She's short, 5'1, but she carries herself as if she is a 6'0 tall runway model. She's dressed in mars black leggings and a dark violet sweatshirt with diamond shaped holes in the shoulder and upper arms. Her clothes make her look like a svelte, confident dancer, just fresh from her first day of rehearsal in a trendy off-Broadway production.

Her feet are bare, except for the ankle bracelet she wears on her right foot, it's made out of deep reddish-brown clay beads rolled up into perfect spheres. The color of the beads doesn't clash against her goldish skin tone since her feet and ankles are paler than the rest of her body.

Against the whiteness of her ankles, the bracelet pops, but not in a gaudy way. But even if it was gaudy she'd still know how to pull it off.

She's the only person I know who can look downright sexy in thrift shop rejects.

 _If she was a lesbian, and if I was a lesbian..._

 _Okay, whoa, that was the wine speaking. Maybe I should slow down._

I sort of want to ask her if Mick put the move on her, because with his reputation and her charisma, I can see that happening.

But, I'm too timid.

I have on a pair of stretchy jeans, which make me look like I'm four months pregnant and a blue blouse. I have seven inches on Mary, and she oozes so much self-confidence and joie de vivre that I feel as if I'm the big awkward girl at the school dance, the one with Pippi Longstocking hair, 18th century braces and horn-rimmed Rx eyeglasses trying to melt into the corner, while the shine of the disco ball radiates off her black hair and gleaming white teeth.

She has shimmering honey-golden skin, dark brown eyes, thick, long eyelashes- just like Pony, Soda, and now Paige, perfect red lips and a _presence_.

I'm a photographer and Mary is a photographer's dream because I wouldn't need to do any work, I would just let her be herself and she'd give me the perfect shot every time.

I love photographing people, but I absolutely hate with a passion getting my picture taken. My driver's license looks more like footage from those hostage tapes you see on the world news.

Do you know what's odd? I'm usually confident in my looks. I'm tall, have long California sun-kissed blonde hair, sapphire blue eyes, and what I'm told is an pretty face. All the features which are, according to the magazine covers designate me as "hot," or whatever phrase my inner feminist is supposed to recoil at, but secretly desires. And yet, sitting next to Mary I never felt more ice cold.

My husband tells me I'm gorgeous, but he's my husband, I expect that from him. I get hit on a lot by strangers, and not just the perverts who hit on any woman with a pulse, but attractive, successful men.

This is going to sound terrible. I would never in a million years cheat on Pony, I don't even respond when strangers flirt with me, but it does feel good to know that I'm attractive in the eyes of others. In the eyes of people who don't have to think I'm still beautiful.

I feel guilty for needing their approval, I have an attractive, good man for a husband. Ponyboy, he's sensitive, but he also has a protective side and he's not afraid to stand up for himself, or me. He never shies away from a fight. But we can, and do, spend hours just talking literature, music and art. But my husband can also talk about the seedier side of life without batting an eye, or feeling the need to exaggerate to boost his own ego.

He makes me feel safe, without making me feel insecure. Most of all, he makes me laugh. That's what I love most about him, his wry and occasionally dark, sense of humor.

He respects me.

Paige's birth has only accentuated the qualities I love the most. I have a good marriage. We're in love.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's too good to be true.

I'm smart, I make money doing what I love, have two awesome dogs, a nice family and I just birthed the most perfect daughter in the history of the entire world. Why am I so needy for the validation of others?

I take another sip of wine.

I'm tall, and yes, I do have some baby flab sticking around, but who cares? I pushed out an 8 lb human being out of my vagina 4 weeks ago. _You gonna complain about my looks?_

But around Mary, I just feel plain, hunched over an awkward giant. It's not like Mary is a movie star gorgeous. She is beautiful, but in a more enigmatic, harsh way. She looks a bit like a Mexican-American Julie Driscoll, feminine and hard at the same time.

Which only makes her stand out in the crowd even more.

What makes me feel even worse for feeling jealous is how effusive she is with her praise and kind words. "You're so gorgeous, honey," she'll tell me with a genuine smile on her face.

Yes, I know when women praise each other you have to watch out for the knife stuck in your back, but not with Mary, she is sincere and she glows with this inner light that makes me feel like my soul is a shriveled-up bag of envy hiding in the husk of my too tall, too wide body.

While our husbands are out doing who knows what, the two of us talk. Really, Mary is the one who talks. She is _very_ sociable, especially after two glasses of wine. No, make that three glasses of wine. I prefer to listen.

"Paige is so beautiful, Aimee. I'm very happy for you and Pony." Her smile is as big as ever, but the moment she thinks I've turned away to put our dishes in the sink, I notice how deeply sad she looks. Her shoulders rise up and her head and neck sink down. Her eyelids cast a shadow over her pupils, and her dark eyes, usually swirling with emotion, look as impersonal as refrigerator magnets.

But I look at her again, wondering if the image I just saw was true or a mirage reflecting my own insecurity and my worst desires. The afternoon sun comes in from our kitchen window and frames her face like the goddess she is, and once again she looks as beautiful, as confident and as happy as ever.

* * *

As we park the car, Soda pleads with me, "please Pone, don't tell anyone about my slip up or about Mary wanting a baby."

I nod, of course I wasn't going to tell anyone, but it feels weird keeping something from Aimee, even if I know deep down that it's none of her business. Heck, it's not even any of my business, Soda just chose to tell me.

Darry, Cathy and their kids arrive right on time. I'm still amazed that my brother, with his three very active, sometimes stubborn, children still has better organizing and timekeeping skills than anyone I know. I watch them from my front window.

Karen is leading the way up the driveway, a five-year old's confidence, even though she hasn't been up here since she was three or so. Next, Cathy comes with Billy squirming away in her arms, Billy's arms and legs are moving like crazy, I have a feeling he much rather try walking up the driveway than be constrained in his mother's arms.

Darry told me that Billy loves walking. Actually, Darry claimed, when I called him last month, that his youngest boy is a _'runner.'_

"He just sort of skipped the walking part, went straight from crawling to running. We already got scouts pounding at my door trying to catch a glimpse at the next Jim Brown. Jim, O.J. Simpson, Walter Payton, they got nothing on my kid."

I could hear Darry's larger than life chuckle reverberate through the phone, making it sound as if he was in my living room with me and not thousands of miles away.

Knowing my brother, there was probably a kernel of truth in his joke, I figure I should already block time out for my nephew's Heisman ceremony in twenty years.

Darry and C.D. bring up the rear. Darry is trying to lug all of their bags in one trip. They're not even sleeping over, but Darry has enough luggage on him to fill an airplane.

I can see C.D. pulling on the arms of his Stretch Armstrong and getting into it with his dad. I have no idea what he says, but at one-point Darry grabs a hold of his arm, and though I can't hear him, but even at a distance, I can read Darry's lips, " _behave_."

And wouldn't you know it, _I_ straighten up a bit.

C.D. just sulks and runs to catch up with Karen, who is already ringing my doorbell like crazy.

"We're here! We're here! We're here!" Karen yells towards the door.

"Open up!" C.D. yells, even louder.

"Quick," Soda whispers, "turn off the lights and pretend no one is home." Mary shakes her head and gives Soda a teasing backhand, "you're awful," she says with a laugh, and a tipsy gait.

Billy starts to fuss.

Cathy tells Karen to stop ringing the doorbell, "give them a minute."

The dogs are going crazy. Aimee said they actually both took naps earlier this afternoon. Just in time to be revved up now.

 _Great._

I open the door.

The gang's all here.

* * *

 _ **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns**_

 _ **I know Aimee talked a LOT and it was probably more telling/expository than I wanted, but hopefully it wasn't too boring.**_

 _ **A little side note: When Soda first met Mary, he described her as having brown hair. She did. She just dyed her hair black between the time Soda met her in 1969 and 1978 when this story takes place.**_

 _ **The Mr. Tibbs line is a reference to the famous quote from the 1967 movie, "In The Heat of the Night" (They call me MR. Tibbs). Yup, our Pony is still film aficionado.**_

 _ **Pippi Longstocking is owned by Astrid Lindgren.**_

 _ **Thank you to everyone who is reading, reviewing, following, favoriting this story. I'm humbled. :)**_


	6. Chapter 6

**We're still up in "O' Canada" as Pony takes his brothers out for a night on the town.**

* * *

"Where the hell you takin' us to, Pony? Saskatchewan?"

I eye my oldest brother; Darry lounges, a proud lion back from a successful hunt across the backseat of my car. His head is casually propped up by his hand, his elbow resting on the arm rest.

"Yeah, Dar, I'm draggin' you and Soda to Saskatchewan. Hope you both went to the bathroom before we left, it's a twenty hour drive and I ain't stopping," I said with the respect that question deserved.

"Sixteen hours…" Darry pauses for a second and dramatically taps the cover of his black and brown leather Timex, "… and seventeen minutes."

Figures, Darry would know the exact distance between my town and Saskatchewan, and he didn't even live here.

Darry is the master of arcane trivia. Collecting facts such as what is the capital of Oman, (Muscat) or what year did handball make its Olympic debut, (1936), the way I've been collecting rejection letters for the past year.

Thankfully Aimee is a gifted photographer and always in demand and the Middlesex Community College was in need for a part time creative writing instructor, otherwise we would be up debt creek, heading towards destitute bay if we had to rely solely on the money I pulled in from writing.

But I don't write to make money, I write because I don't know who I am without it. Any more than I wouldn't know who I am without my family.

Not knowing what to say in response, I make good use of my English degree and give Darry the finger.

My first editor told me I'm too verbose anyways. _"Curtis, for Christ's sake take a Kaopectate and stop the shit show! I want your prose to come out like large, soft, solid pieces of Grade A crap, not this verbal diarrhea."_

His excrement metaphor notwithstanding, he had a point.

Darry chuckles and gave me the bird, along with a bullish smirk.

Soda is too involved in flipping through radio stations. His tongue sticks out slightly, his brows dip down to form the top half of an 'x.'

Soda digs music.

Here's the thing that people don't get about him. I'm supposed to be the 'deep' one in my family, but despite my ability to um, 'produce verbal diarrhea' and engage in literary and philosophical discussions all which are supposed to be evidence of my 'depth'; I'm the shallow end of the kiddie pool compared to his subterranean genius.

Take music. I love music. At its best music is the canoe that I load with years of warn-out, leather baggage, some which I forgot I even had until I dusted it off and brought it down from the attic. I call fill the hull with this luggage and no matter how heavy my baggage is, while the canoe may wobble, it never tips over.

With music I find myself exploring the deep rivers within, confident to row through the high and low tides, the waves and currents, the bubbling creeks, the self-made lakes and the oceans that contain universes.

But I need lyrics to serve as my oar. Otherwise, while I may enjoy the gentle rocking and the scenery, I would get nowhere. It's the poetry of the lyrics, disco being the exception, where I find my meaning.

Soda doesn't need an oar or even a canoe. Music for Soda is not the canoe but the water. While the rest of us seek our travels while fully clothed, Soda is in the buff, diving in head first. When he comes up for air, he might be bitten and red; but he also has access to a world that belongs only to him.

For Soda, music is raw and primordial, the life source with the power to flood no matter how high on the land we build our houses; but also with the power to put out the fires that threaten to burn us whole.

So we might as well just enjoy it and allow the water to wash over us.

He feels it, and he's always encouraging us to explore our own oceans.

Darry will sometimes dip his hands into the water and when he thinks no one is looking, he will let the wild blue run up his arms and touch his shoulders and flow back down his arms. His feet remain firmly planted on the ground. But without Darry's vigilant gaze at the incoming waves, Soda would drown.

When I was younger I could explore the ocean with my eyes closed, because my heart, mind and soul were open. I wasn't afraid to feel the muck squish between my toes, because I knew no matter how dirty I got, the water would wash me clean.

I was the one swimming in the deep and floating on the crest of the waves, looking up at the blue-black marine sky of the dolphin stars, when everyone else hunkered to the shoreline.

But that was a world ago. Sometimes I'll get the courage to jump out of my canoe, but not without the life jacket of cynicism, fear and jadedness preventing me from exploring the deep.

And sometimes, I can't even sail because my oceans have turned to ice, leaving the deepest crevices to Soda to explore on his own.

Oh yeah, my first editor also said that I relied too much on overwrought metaphors. "Just tell it like it is, Curtis!"

So aquatic analogy aside, here it is: Soda feels music, in the chords, the primitive beats or the nuanced bridges.

Once Soda truly digs a song I can't help but think of that song as belonging to him and only to him. No different than a husband and wife belong to each other and to no one else. Even the original artist becomes nothing more than an adulterer in this agape union between Soda and his music.

And his union is just as fraught with the potential for ecstasy and despair as any marriage. If you ever seen his face when he's listening to a song he connects to, especially to a song he connects to in a negative way, you understand exactly what I'm getting at.

Just don't try to understand it or expect it to follow a safe or logical pattern; cause with Soda, more than anyone I've known, the "ecstasy of hell" and the "despair of heaven" is not a hackneyed contradiction of terms but an accord.

Right now our deep sea diving bridegroom just let out a belch and was now poking me in the shoulder, bouncing up like a little kid.

What else can I say, my brother, he contains multitudes. Annoying multitudes that drive me up the wall.

I gave him a hard punch, a bit harder than I meant to, and he almost slams into the side window.

I turn onto a country road, filled with more rocks and dips than anything resembling gravel. The car jumps up and down, cursing might have been heard from the backseat. Soda and I jolt forward.

Soda straightened himself up and turned to me with a wise-ass expression.

"So Pone, you gonna kill us right now, or let us suffer first?"

"Asshole," I reply with a smirk.

"You oughta just take Darry; after all he's what, 33? Come on, he's lived long enough."

"Thanks, little buddy," Darry utters, using his old nickname for Soda that I haven't heard him use for years. "Oh, and by the way," Darry continued, a glimmer of a smirk on his lips, "fuck you."

Well that did it. Soda started to roar with laughter and then Darry started to laugh, his laughter now almost as wild and unadorned as Soda.

And I laugh too, because it just feels so good to talk smack and laugh with my brothers.

I flash back in my mind to the first few months after my parents died and Soda was the only one who could get Darry to laugh. Soda and Darry would go over the bills late at night, and what was ostensibly a meeting over financial matters would turn into something wide wheeling and no holds bar. Fights occasionally broke out, but much more often, so did laughter, rough housing and long conversations.

"What?" Soda says with mock innocence, "Jesus was 33 when he died and resurrected, maybe you're the Second Coming of Christ, Darry."

"Yeah, and if that's right the first thing I'm doin' is getting The Big Guy to give me permission to kick your bony ass to hell."

Soda chortles, but Darry goes on.

"Besides, if I was Jesus I wouldn't know what I'd do with all those crazy preachers scamming people in my name."

My ears perk up, I never heard Darry take much of stand on anything to do with politics or religion, but hypocrisy rattled him. His voice was serious filled with a deep conviction.

"Hey Soda, you go to church with Mary?" I knew Mary went to this real small Catholic Church where most of the congregants were Mexican immigrants, poor Native Americans, cowboys, loners, or other people on the margins of life and they utilized a lot of 'spiritual' or what Darry would call 'weird woo-woo' stuff.

Soda clams up like a kid who is asked by a teacher if he did his homework, "yeah, sometimes. Not as much as she wants me to or as much as I should…" He looked out the window, longingly, biting his bottom lip and not saying anything.

Darry notices the shift as well and gives me a shrug.

We emerge from the woods. Soda is again playing with the radio. "Damn Pony, do you get any good stations up here?" Soda leans forward and begins to loudly drum on the dashboard.

"Yeah, I got music, the sound of your head against the windshield if you don't shut up."

"Don't know if something that hollow would make much of a sound," Darry pipes up. He sitting up now, and he's moved to the center of the backseat, and he looks, well, he looks really happy. I know it means a lot to Darry for the three of us to be together again, even if just for a short time. When Darry is in a good mood, he tends to make a lot of wry remarks.

I realize then that Darry doesn't always use sarcasm as a defensive tactic, but the opposite. Darry is happy right now and that's how he lets his guard down. Me, on the other hand, I keep my guard up by making sarcastic comments.

"Ha, regular comedian back there, Dar."

"Well Pone, if you do decide to shorten my time on earth, just try to leave my face untouched. Would be a crime against nature to touch this baby, besides I'm pretty sure Mary would want an open casket funeral. Not to mention my legions of adoring fans, gotta get the public what they want."

He flashes me a wide grin, but time and his life circumstances have transformed Soda's grin into a weighty shadow of its former effervescent light.

But there's still animation and life even in its crude, rough form.

I can't help but smile back at him; it's the first genuine smile I've given him since he told me he fell off the wagon. And you know what? _I_ feel relief.

Being pissed off at Soda is not where I wanted to be. Darry and I both wore that straitjacket before and it nearly suffocated all three of us.

Darry breaks in, "adoring fans? Ha you mean that neighbor of yours who is obsessed with you? That woman is not just missing a screw but an entire wall."

Soda lets out a nonchalant sigh and smirks,"hey, I take my fans where I can find them. Besides at least my neighbors don't hate me."

"Hate me? Mrs. Gladis doesn't hate me," Darry says with a note of puzzlement.

Soda bursts out laughing, "ha! The woman is 80 years old and the only time she leaves her house is to have her dog shit on your front yard."

I chuckle, I had no idea about any of this, and I felt a needle of longing prick me. I hate missing out on these little everyday moments.

"Mrs. Gladis isn't that bad, besides I'm pretty sure Diana has a shrine dedicated to you in her house and probably a life size blow up doll."

"All perfectly natural," Soda said sarcastically. "Besides she can be a very sweet woman."

Darry chuckles, "hmm, you sure you're not back on the smack and blow?"

Soda stops laughing. His body tenses up and even though I'm driving and trying to pay attention to the road I see that his mouth is a flat line and his eyes blaze.

"I didn't do much cocaine back in the day Darry, and I haven't used heroin in years."

I want to jump over the seat and throttle Darry. What the hell? He knows better to make jokes about Soda's drug use. Darry has never, ever made even slightest sarcastic remark at all about Soda's past. In fact Darry, unlike Soda, doesn't like to talk about it, turning into a deaf monk if Soda brings it up.

Darry doesn't respond.

Soda isn't mad at Darry though, he's pissed off at me.

He gives me a quick sting of a glance.

Wide eyed, I shake my head, "I didn't say nothing," I whisper.

Soda's face relaxes and his cocaine line smile turns into an apologetic grin. "I know. I'm sorry Pony."

I give my brother a half-hearted smile in return. When people trust me with secrets I turn into Fort Knox, but seeing our oldest brother in the backseat, oblivious to all that was going on in Soda's life a surge of guilt filled me.

I park the car and pointed to the unobtrusive sign on the blue and grey wood paneled building, "here we are, _Lucky's Bar."_

I sure hope Lucky would live up to its name.

* * *

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Walt Whitman owns the "contains multitudes" line Pony alludes to. It's from his poem, Song of Myself.**_

 _ **S.E. Hinton owns Ponyboy (sigh). I just borrow him and all of her other amazing characters.**_

 _ **Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, read, liked and follow. :)**_


	7. Chapter 7

**And we finally meet...Patrick! YES, I'm going back to Lucky and our guys at the bar, but before I do that, just wanted to introduce the one and only Patrick Nguyen to readers.**

 **Warning: racial slur use**

* * *

 _ **Oklahoma City, April, 1978**_

"Patrick, do you think what you did to Hector was following the Seahawk Code?"

I'm sitting in Principal Hansen's office. Principle Hansen has on a bright blue suit that makes her look like a blue raspberry slurpee. That's my favorite type of slupree, when I first got to America I drank my first slupree so fast that I got a headache.

Now, I'm a pro.

She's staring at me, and I hate when adults look at me. Makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong. But I guess I am doing something wrong because I'm down in the principal's office.

I move my legs up and down. I don't like sitting still. I don't know why, but sometimes I feel like I have a bunch of bugs inside of me and I just got to move or else I'll go so crazy.

I'm in the principal's office because I punched Hector. But, he deserved it, so I don't feel bad, even though I know Mrs. Hansen wants me to feel bad.

Principal Hansen taps her hand on her desk and pushes her glasses until they're almost off her face. I think she's trying to look mean, like Mr. Teal, the gym teacher, but her eyes are really small and she looks tired.

Anna, my mom, always tells me I should stick up for myself. So that's what I did.

"Why don't Hector get yelled at?" I stare right back at Mrs. Hansen. Anna taught me that. She told me that even if I'm scared, I should always look at people in the eye.

"Because Hector is in the nurse's office with a bloody nose. We're not talking about Hector, Patrick, we're talking about you. This isn't like you. Why did you punch Hector?"

I shrug my shoulders, "I dunno, Mrs. Hansen." She sighs like she's real mad at me and pushes her glasses back on her face. Her eyes look a lot bigger now.

I punched Hector because he was being mean. He always makes fun of me.

I'm in the 4th grade at Woodland Elementary School, except I'm in a class for kids who don't speak English that good. There are three kids from Mexico, Hector, Maria-Josefina and Yesenia, one girl from Lebanon, Jaella, and a girl from Vietnam name Minh.

Everyone thinks that me and Minh are going to get married because I'm also Vietnamese. But I'm not going to marry Minh. I hate her. I mean it. Her food smells bad and so does her breath. She wears the same clothes every day. I don't get it. The other kids make fun of her. If she tries to sit next to me at lunch I pretend that I'm real interested in my comic books so I don't have to speak to her.

But that don't stop the other kids from singing "Patrick and Minh sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G…" I've never kissed a girl, that's super-duper gross. And I wouldn't ever want to kiss Minh. Not if she was the last girl on earth! EWWWW.

One day Minh and me were walking home, we live in the same apartment building. Minh kept on talking to me in Vietnamese which made me angry, because the other kids around us were making fun of the way she spoke.

One kid, said she sounded like a dog. That made me feel embarrassed because I sound just like Minh. I wanted to tell Minh to shut up, but I didn't want the other kids to say that I sound like a dog, too.

I have blonde hair and white skin and I don't look Vietnamese at all so people don't know I'm Vietnamese unless they hear me talk or see my mom.

I know a lot of Americans hate Vietnamese people, so I don't like to talk in public, unless I have to.

But Minh kept on talking. The other kids were making 'kissy' noises walking behind us and my face got red. I don't know if my face got red, since I wasn't in front of a mirror or a window, but it felt really hot.

Right in front of my apartment I yelled at Minh.

"SHUT UP MINH! You sound like dog!" The other kids started to giggle and the kid who said Minh sounded like a dog was grinning at me. I suddenly felt like I had a friend. I don't have many friends. So, I grinned right back at him, hoping he would like me and maybe want to ride bikes with me on Saturday, or just hang out.

"…And smell like dog!" I looked at my new friend for his approval, but just as my eyes were meeting his, Anna opened the door, grabbed me-hard, pulled me into the doorway and with the door still half-way open, slapped me across the face.

She heard everything.

One kid said, "oooooh, Patrick's mom just whupped him!" "Whupped" means beaten, I found that out earlier that week, otherwise I would have been real confused. I wanted to tell the idiot that Anna didn't beat me. That he was right there and saw the whole thing. Anna only slapped me, what was he blind?

But I was too shaken up by Anna hitting me.

Anna had never hit me before. It didn't hurt, but it really stung, if you know what I mean. Tears started to fall from my eyes.

I felt so embarrassed about crying that I almost started to cry more.

The other kids looked like they were watching a real good movie, like Star Wars, that they couldn't stop watching.

"Anna! Why did you do that?!" My mama had never slapped me like this. Sometimes, she'd slap my hands or my butt, if I misbehaved, but mostly she just talks to me. She hardly even yells. If that don't sound scary to you, then you haven't met Anna.

Anna looked at me like I asked her what color the sky was, like I was stupid, "because you're acting like a jackass. Apologize to the girl."

I walked out of the doorway and Minh was still there

I thought Minh would be crying, because girls cry a lot.

But she wasn't.

I thought that was brave of her and I wonder if deep down inside she wanted to cry. There are times when I want to cry, but I don't want people to make fun of me, so I keep it inside. Boys aren't supposed to cry anyways.

Anna, she never cries. She's the bravest person I know.

I'm glad she wasn't crying because then I would have felt real bad, and I already felt bad enough, having Anna hit me like that in front of everyone.

Minh looked at me like she was happy Anna slapped me, but I would be happy if I was her and she was me, so I understood. "I'm sorry, Minh." I say it real softly.

"Okay," she said, and she walked up the walkway to her apartment.

That evening, Anna made me my favorite dinner to show that she wasn't mad at me anymore. Anna cooks real good.

Anna doesn't hug a lot, but that night she pulled me onto her lap, even though I was nine and felt like a big baby sitting on her lap.

She told me that she loved me more than anyone in the world, but if I was mean to Minh again, I would get it a lot worse than just a slap across the face.

"You shouldn't have hit me in front of everyone," I told Anna.

Anna shrugged, "I'll make a contract with you, you stop acting like an asshole in front of everyone, and I won't have to hit you. Deal?"

I didn't know what a contract was, so Anna explained it to me.

Anna then made me a sign an actual contract. She used a pushpin to stick it up on the wall.

When Uncle, who is not my real uncle, but Anna's sort of husband, saw it, he just shook his head.

I never made fun of Minh again. That's why I try to avoid her now. Minh, she still gots a big crush on me. And, she still smells like dog food. And even though I thought she was brave for not crying, I still hate her.

That was back in December.

It's April now and I'm in the Principal's office for fighting with Hector. Hector bothered me since the first day of school. He always poking me in the arm with his pencils or kicking me legs. But every time I complain to Miss. Schultz, he just says "sorry," and Miss Schultz acts like everything is okay.

Do you know the worst part of it? She makes me tell Hector that I forgive him, and Hector gives me this smug look, because he knows he got away with being a stupid jerk. It makes me so angry.

Sometimes at night I think about pushing Hector down the stairs or I dream of Hector being attacked by a bunch of vultures.

But of course, I don't push him and no vultures attack him.

He just continues to poke me. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," he keeps on saying under his breath, when I turn to face him, he puts his fingers to his eyes and stretches them, "Chinky, Chink," he calls me.

I'm not even Chinese. Hector is the dumbest person on the planet. Of all the billions of people on the planet Hector Palacios is the very dumbest. I swear, his IQ is negative 1,000.

I told him to stop about a million times, but it doesn't matter. Hector is small for his age, so I think Miss. Schultz thinks that he can't hurt me because he's so tiny, but you don't need to be Arnold Schwarzenegger to hurt someone with a pencil, those things are sharp.

I want to be as athletic and strong as Arnold when I'm older, then I figured, stupid Hector would stop picking on me. Or else he'll just have to get a bigger pencil.

But today I had enough. I was so angry and fed up. He poked me with a pencil and I turned around and punched him in the nose. Miss. Schultz started to yell and cry when she saw Hector's bloody nose.

There's a lot of blood even in small guys like Hector.

Unlike Minh, Hector cried like a baby. I think he cried partly because it hurt and partly because he wanted people to feel sorry for him. Miss. Schultz was putting her arm around him, but she was careful not to get close enough that her dress got bloody. So, i guess she didn't care about him that much.

In the principal's office I eat some Jelly Belly's. Mrs. Hansen has a whole bowl of them, my favorite flavor red.

"Patrick, do you think you should be eating candy when you're in trouble?"

"Then why you have candy on your desk?" I thought it was a good point, if Mrs. Hansen didn't want me to eat the candy, she shouldn't have candy on her desk.

Mrs. Hansen grabs the bowl violently away from me, about a dozen jelly beans end up on the desk and Mrs. Hansen looks like she wants to slap me.

"Hector is real mean Mrs. Hansen. He kicks me and pokes me and is mean. He should be in trouble. Not me." I'm proud because sometimes I have trouble speaking English, my words get knotted or I forget a word. I listen in English better than I speak it.

I work real hard at talking better. I want to stop being in the class with Hector and Minh.

But Mrs. Hansen ignores how good I'm getting at speaking English.

Mrs. Hansen sighs, "Patrick, Miss. Schultz has never said anything about Hector doing anything wrong."

That made me REAL mad. Do you know when you're so mad you feel you're about to go nuts? I wanted to go nuts right there.

"Miss. Schultz is stupid." The moment I said that, I wish I could stuff the words right back in my mouth. Miss. Schultz was stupid, and a liar, but teachers are like members of a club, they always defend each other and stick up for each other. They're like a pack of wolves I saw a film about last week.

"Patrick, this is ENOUGH. I'm calling your mother. I'm giving you a five day suspension. Do you know what that mean?"

I shook my head no.

"A suspension means that you are being punished because you are behaving very poorly. You will have five days at home to think about what you've done."

Five days without Hector?

That doesn't sound like a punishment, but the best birthday present ever. Oh yeah, my birthday was a few weeks ago.

I try not to smile, because then she'll figure out that I'm not upset at all about being suspended.

Anna doesn't answer the phone.

"Your mother must be out grocery shopping." I nod, but I know Anna is probably at home. Sometimes, she just doesn't answer the phone.

She tries to call Uncle, "I'm going to call Mr. Phu…" her face scrunches up and her eye brows move up and down real fast. Uncle's last name is Phuc, and Americans think it sounds like a swear.

"Fooook" I say, "you say it "Foooook."

Mrs. Hansen looks so grateful at me, that I swear she's going to jump over her desk and her spilled jelly beans and kiss me, which would be even grosser than kissing Minh.

She gives me a slight smile, "thank you, Patrick."

She tries to call him at the store he works, and she spends a lot of time talking to some person named Beatrice instead. Uncle used to be a general in the South Vietnam Army, now he works as a stockboy.

I've never been to the grocery store he works at. He takes the bus because we don't have a car, back in Vietnam he rode in a limo.

Anna doesn't work at all.

Mrs. Hansen is getting pretty impatient talking to Beatrice and I hope she doesn't take it out on me.

Instead she hangs up the phone.

"Well, I wasn't able to get in contact with your father."

I look at her, "Mr. Phuc is not my dad."

My dad was an American soldier. I can see my reflection through a picture frame in Mrs. Hansen's office, my blonde hair and round eyes and white skin were all from my dad.

But I don't know him at all.

* * *

As always, thanks so much for the reads, reviews, everything. You guys are the absolute BEST. :)

Sorry for editing errors.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: We're at Lucky's! An 'old friend' will make a cameo appearance in this chapter. Warning: description of child abuse, Soda uses a homophobic slur in a non-homophobic context. There is a debate/argument between Mary & Cathy over corporal punishment and spanking, keep in mind this story takes place in 1978 and spanking was much more prevalent then. **

**Pony and Cathy (yes, if you're just joining us, Cathy as in the former Cathy Carlson and now Mrs. Darrel Curtis) narrate.**

* * *

"We woulda been better off in the damn woods," Darry muttered under his breath, he looks up at the blue neon sign, the L, U, and K are missing.

I hide a smirk as I open up the heavily scratched up wood door for Darry and Soda.

Darry is quick to judge and once he makes up his mind about a person or a place it's damn near impossible to get him to change it. But when it came to Lucky's he wasn't that far off.

Lucky's is dipped up in irony and battered in despair. It's a place filled with rejects from Cormac McCarthy stories on a good day, Deliverance rejects on a bad day. And if you're real lucky, an occasional axe murdering type, just to provide some variety.

It's a place you might imagine on the very edge of the Alaskan wilderness, filled with men who hadn't been around women for months on end, not some place a mere two hours away from the cosmopolitan gleam of Vancouver.

"Aww, come on Dar, it might be fun," Soda winked at me, even at 29 ½ he still always up for an adventure. I'm turning 27 in a few months and I'm already feeling old. Maybe it's fatherhood?

I shrug and duck the low hanging rusted pipe that juts out from the ceiling.

"God damn it!" Darry clonks his head against the pipe.

"You gotta watch out for the pipe," I say.

"No shit," Darry retorts back. Soda bobs and weaves under the ceiling like Muhammad Ali fighting Joe Frazier.

Soda used to work at a bar and he misses it, and with his people skills he was more an amateur psychiatrist than a bar tender.

Soda nods towards the bar, "let's sit up there."

I have no doubt that within five minutes Soda would not only become best friend with the bartender, a man who's name I'm ashamed to say, I couldn't remember, but be running the place.

Fuck, by the end of the night they'd probably be calling the place "Soda's."

But Darry shakes his pipe-hit head, "nah, let's go over there," he points to an empty booth at the very far end of the bar, at the opposite end of the bar and the bathroom.

Unlike the other booths, there are no lights in that corner of the bar, just a single dimmed light bulb that casts a sinister faded yellow light onto the table.

If Lucky's is Siberia, then this corner is it's Gulag Archipelago.

We order peanuts and dark ale, or rather Darry orders for us. It amazing and frightening that no matter where we are, Darry will always fall into his old role of leader of the pack.

I've been to Lucky's maybe a half dozen times, but the waitress, though she knows me by name, and doesn't know Soda and Darry from a hole in the ground, asked Darry for his order first. He exudes power and authority.

"You sure you don't want our extra-large lager there, big guy? A big fella like you can surely handle it."

Pamela, our waitress leans over the table and I notice she doesn't have a bra on. Her fingers are dangerously close to Darry's hands and I see, though the movements are subtle, my brother's chest rise and fall.

Her eyeshadow is a startling shade of florescent pink that not even Mary's drag queen friends would be caught dead wearing. It's the sort of eyeshadow you imagine an amateur director putting on a young ingenue playing the role of streetwalker.

But if Pamela thinks she's getting any place with Darry, she's dead wrong.

Darry shoots Pamela a cold smile. "No thank you, ma'am," he emphasizes the last word, a devastating shot across the bow for a forty something woman who likes to imagine herself twenty-five.

He lifts up his hand and lets the dimmed light shine on his ring finger and taps his wedding ring against his chin, Darry doesn't exactly do subtle, "we'll have two pitchers, just like I said."

Pamela just straightens herself up, "well if you change your mind, big guy, you know my name," she never takes her eyes off my brother.

I shudder.

Somehow, I know Pam isn't just talking about the lager.

"Sorry about that Dar," I begin.

Darry just gives me a half-smile, "it ain't your fault."

Soda, popping about five peanuts into his mouth, grins "oh please, you liked it, man. Shit, the way your heart was beatin' I thought you was gonna have a damn heart attack."

Darry turns slightly red, "I'm a married man, Soda, besides, even if I wasn't, I ain't _that_ desperate."

But I notice that although Darry is trying to look pissed off, the corner of mouth turned into a slight grin. I know Darry would never reciprocate Pamela's flirting, but part of him was not the least bit prideful that he was the one getting hit on.

"So, Pone, why you picked this place?" Soda looks around the room, "It ain't exactly close to your house or nothing. It certainly ain't cause the waitresses are pretty or nothing." He scrunches up his nose and lets out a 'woof' as he eyes Pamela, who with her back turned to us, is wiping down a table.

I roll my eyes; Soda for all his laid back, easy going swagger and genuine friendliness can be judgmental about the physical appearance of people he doesn't know personally.

I shrug, "I like the ambience."

"Damn, 'dem some high-falutin' words, boy," Soda replies in a mock hillbilly accent, which he's able to pull off surprisingly well. Our grandpa, Dale Curtis, grew up in the Ozarks of Arkansas, and though we never knew our grandpa, a bit of that mountain inflection ended up in his middle grandson.

His voice goes back to his normal soft-spoken drawl. Soda's accent is a jukebox medley of country-western, roots rock, hard rock, folk, even R&B, all mixed together. If you take John Fogerty, J.J. Cale, Levon Helm and the ghost of Ronnie Van Zant and distilled their voices into one accent, you kind of get an idea of what Soda sounds like.

I'd say his accent is the result of spending years crisscrossing the country and meeting all sorts of people, but even as a kid back in Tulsa he always had a one of kind cadence, a gentle cowboy twang hunkering down with the tough no-nonsense drawl of a Tulsa hood. Steel blades and cowboy hats, weed and whiskey.

His voice capable of shifting from amicable and open to mean and hard-edged within the shade of the same syllable.

The truth is, I like Lucky's because no one I know goes here. I'm not a big drinker, the memories of Johnny's parents too embedded into my brain to ever truly do anything more than an occasional drink here and there. But it's nice to have a place where I can go, work on my writing in peace, all while observing some interesting looking characters.

Soda looks worried, "everything okay with you and Aimee? I mean, I figure things gotta be a bit stressful with the baby…"

I cut him off, "nah, eveything's good between us."

I meant it too, far from stressing us out the first month of parenthood had brought us together in a way that I could have only dreamed about on our wedding day.

It sounds corny, but what the heck, after seeing her labor our daughter, all I can say is that I am in complete awe of Aimee. She's superwoman. She's special and I know I'm a lucky guy to have her.

Darry pours some beer into his empty glass, "more power to ya, Pone, things were going pretty rough between Cathy and me after the first two kids."

I don't say anything, but my eyebrows shoot up, Darry keeps so much of himself to himself, but I had no idea that he and Cathy ever had marital problems. I don't think I know of any couple more solid and together as Darry and Cathy.

They're both serious, hard-working, dedicated over achievers and though they don't paw each other every ten seconds like Soda and Mary do, or constantly hold hands like Aimee and I do; the way Darry constantly brags about what a great wife and mother Cathy is, you can see how proud he is of her. And the way Cathy eyes Darry or the way they share a small grin over an inside joke when they think no one is looking, yeah, they're in love.

"How you work through them?" Not that I expect Darry to open up to me.

Darry just shrugged, "we just did. She's my wife, I'm her husband."

"Well," Soda said raising his glass, "I'd say we all got ourselves some pretty fuckin' fantastic women. Here's to the ladies."

We clink glasses.

* * *

When my kids are making a lot of noise, I get nervous. When my kids aren't making any noise, I get really nervous because my children, especially C.D., are not the quiet and reserved type, but is any kid in the T.V. era?

The guys are out a bar, and Aimee, Mary and I are with the kids. My kids have been quiet for the last ten minutes.

I know I could check on them, but I tell myself that they're fine, besides, I'm kind of enjoying this brief respite from breaking up fights and wiping noses.

My two oldest kids just turned 4 and 5 back in January, but they're already living such a different life from the one Darrel and I did.

As their mother, I'm grateful that we're able to give our children the extra toys, vacations and opportunities that neither of us had growing up; but as their mother a part of me is worried about going too far in the other direction.

Do the kids really need a fancy playset with an attached two-story playhouse that Darrel built for them in the backyard? Wouldn't a simple swing set and slide be enough?

Neither Darrel nor I even had a swing set growing up, and while I understand and love Darrel for wanting to make sure our children have all of the advantages we never had, I think my children would do just as well with half the toys.

Yet, both Darrel and I are similarly wired when I comes to discipline and parenting: fair punishments and never letting the kids forget that they're the kids and we're the parents. Neither of us tolerate bad table manners, rudeness and temper tantrums get you nowhere except maybe a time out or a pat on the behind.

The babies were down for naps and Mary, Aimee and I were, at Mary's insistence playing a game of truth or dare.

"Oh, come on Cat, it'll be fun, besides what's a few secrets between sisters."

I wanted to add that we're sisters-in-laws and not actual sisters, but I hold my tongue.

"Sure, _Mare_." Aimee starts to chuckle, but hides it by pretending to clear her voice. I cannot stand it when Mary calls me Cat. Least of all because that's Darrel's pet nickname for me.

I let Aimee see my eyes roll, and she gives me a small, knowing smile; but then looks guilty. I don't think I've ever heard Aimee ever mutter a bad word about anyone. Not that I'm around her enough to know for sure. Who knows, maybe she's Jackie Collins underneath her sweet disposition?

But I doubt it.

"Besides, between all the drinking we're doing, fuck if we can even remember who were married to. Just remember I got the hot one." Mary gives us a wink.

Call me old fashioned, but it grates my ear to hear someone, male or female, drop the f bomb as much as Mary does.

I'm bit intoxicated already because I mutter, "let's just hear what your husband can do in the bedroom, then we'll compare."

Aimee's eyes widen a bit, but Mary just chuckles, "ha! I knew Darry had a wild side to him. Must be the construction worker in him. You can't work with all 'em balls and chains and not be a bit kinky."

Aimee cackles and I'm surprised at how loud her laugh is, especially for a shy girl.

"Don't forget those drills," Aimee deadpans and mimics the shake of the drill. So much for Aimee being the 'sweet, shy' type.

Mary cracks up and gives me a wink and a hard-pat on the knee.

My cheeks flush and I dig my fingernails into Pony and Aimee's purple couch. The thing is Darrel, my conservative, "Tulsa's Young Businessman of 1977," husband did have a, as Mary would put it, 'kinky' side.

But I certainly wasn't going to share that with Aimee or Mary.

You know what, there are times when I really understand why my husband doesn't always care for Mary.

There's not a mean bone in her body and she's very friendly and encouraging and I understand why Soda loves her, but she's also blunt and honest to a fault.

She doesn't know when to shut up.

Did she really need to tell me "girl, you look fabulous, that baby weight just melted right off; I swear you lost the weight from Billy _way_ faster than you did from your older kids?" Apparently, she did.

Both babies started to cry and Aimee offered to check on them.

"We're okay, just two full diapers," she announces from the bedroom.

"You want help in there, sweetie?" Mary calls out.

"No, I got it, thank you."

I stand up, "well, at least let me help out with my son."

"Nope, I have it all under control. No need for you two to enter the Hazmat Zone!"

I like Aimee a lot. She has brilliant mind and the only person who can talk about art and photography without sounding like a pretentious artiste. She's a bit quirky, maybe even a bit weird, but genuinely nice.

Besides, aren't we all a bit quirky? Even my truck-driving, very masculine husband knows all the words to every Carpenter song and cried watching an episode of 'Little House on the Prairie.'

She's the type of person I would have been friends with back in high school, which given that I used to date her husband, makes a certain amount of sense.

"OWWWWWW!" C.D. yells from the guest bedroom he and Karen are playing in.

"MOMMY!" He runs out into the living room and jumps into my lap, "Karen pushed me!" His sister is quickly on his heels, a sure-fire sign of guilt.

"It was an accident, Mommy. Besides, C.D. pushed me first."

I look over at C.D., who is well on his way to fake crying, "C.D., you're fine," I give him a kiss on the side of his head, and he gives his sister a look of superiority.

"Both of you, stop pushing each other, Karen don't push your brother…"

"But Mama, C.D…."

"Do not interrupt when I'm speaking, missy."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you, Karen. C.D. don't push your sister."

"Carlson?" I say in a firm voice, "are you listening to me?"

"No."

Mary bites her lips to keep from laughing, and so do I, to be honest.

"Well, listen. Both of you, no more pushing or hitting, in fact no more touching each other at all. Next person who does that will get a spanking. You understand? C.D.?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Karen?"

"Yes, Mommy."

The kids go back to the bedroom, knowing full well that I mean what I say.

Mary scrunches up her face, "you really spank your kids? I figure Darry does, he's so old fashion, but I don't think I ever heard you threaten to spank before."

Of course, I spank my children. Every parent I know does. 'Old fashion'? Who is she to judge my husband?

Believe me, there was plenty to judge her and Soda about.

Darrel isn't perfect and yes, he is strict with the kids, but I love him for that. He's teaching them good morals, behavior and the value of family and hard-work ethic. If more dads were like Darrel we wouldn't be having half the problems we have in this country. Heck, half of those guys in prison, guys we knew from the neighborhood, their problem was that their fathers weren't around enough to discipline them.

"Yes, I discipline my children, when they deserve it," I try to keep my voice light, but it's hard.

Mary shakes her head, "I would never spank my kids. All that does is teach 'em that violence and hitting is okay, as long as Mommy and Daddy do it."

"Well, when you have kids, you and Soda can make that decision…"

Mary's eyes narrow and I'm reminded of just how mean she can look when she's upset, but instead of laying into me, she sighs, "listen, Cat, I'm really not trying to be difficult, okay? I know what it's like to be raised in a household where whippings are everyday occurrences…" She looks at me and I see how much pain she carries in her eyes.

"We don't 'whup' our kids. We would never use a belt on them. Just our bare hands, when they deserve it." Anger rises through me, and my toes curl up. Does she really think we _beat_ our children? I feel sick. The spankings I give are nothing like the ones I got as child. How could she think that we would actually hurt our babies?

Aimee walks back into the living room, and breaks out into a grin, "Cathy, you should have seen Billy, he has the cutest…"

But she caches Mary's face and her eyes widen with concern and empathy as she unobtrusively sits on her couch, careful not to interrupt.

Mary smiles at me, "I know Cathy, and really it's my own hang-up. But every time I hear someone talking about spanking, or whupping, or belting their kid, it don't matter, what term they use, it's all the same for me. I remember how my Daddy used to punish me and my brothers. I know you and Darry ain't at all like my Daddy, and it ain't fair to fuse y'all together.

But, my Daddy, he used to 'spank' us, that's what he called it. He made my brother Ricky get a switch from the tree and if he didn't pick a thick enough switch, Daddy would pick one for him, and beat him twice as hard, until Rick was on the floor, shaking and bleeding…"

Her voice drifts off and tears run down her cheeks.

Aimee pulls her into a hug, "I'm so sorry, Mary." Mary starts to cry on her shoulder, a loud cry too, and I feel sorry too, it's horrible what her father did. Absolutely horrible. But I feel like such a third wheel now. I pat Mary's shoulder but the gesture just feels hollow compared to Aimee's warm embrace.

She wipes her eyes and lets out a laugh, "ah, don't worry about ol' Rick, all that did was give him buns of steel."

Aimee tries to laugh, even though she's wiping her own eyes. I'm the only one who isn't in tears. I feel like I should be crying, or at least, emotional, but nothing is coming.

Mary winks at me and I try to smile.

"You're real lucky Cathy. Your kids, they really are sweethearts."

I don't know if "sweetheart" is how I would describe Karen and C.D, Billy yes, but that's only because he's not old enough to talk back. She is right about one thing, I am lucky.

* * *

"Ain't we lucky, today Lucky's offers its shrimp platter combo at half-price," Soda says as Pamela puts a huge platter of shrimp, fried cod and tater-tots on our table.

"Hmm, we'll just see how lucky my digestive system is in a few hours," Darry mutters.

"It isn't bad, Darry," I say, dipping a shrimp into ketchup, "the food here is pretty decent."

"Death row decent, or normal person decent?" Darry shoots me a grin.

"I would say 'death row, but last meal' decent"

For all of its "Looking for Mr. Goodbar" sleaze and half-ass commitment to not knocking the customers unconscious with their low-hanging pipes, Lucky has a some pretty good food options.

Soda reaches for a tot, but before he pops it in his mouth, he quickly crosses himself.

Soda converted to Catholicism for his wife, but I was surprised to see him take it so seriously.

He realizes we're looking at him, "force of habit, man."

"You don't need to be apologetic, Soda, you're taking this religious stuff pretty seriously, huh?"

Soda shrugs, "I mean, I don't believe everything my wife does, but you know what, the gestures, like the crossing myself before eating or before going to bed, there's something almost calming about those rituals, know what I mean?"

I did. I wasn't Catholic, so I couldn't get what those specific gestures meant to Soda and Mary, but I know the importance of rituals and routines. I still watch the sunset, and every time I do, I think of Johnny Cade and him telling me to 'stay gold' all those years ago.

And then I'll say a prayer for Johnny, Dally and of course, my parents. I'll think about Randy, and add Bob to my list.

I'll close my eyes and even with my eyes close, I can still see the gold, orange and pink of the setting sun.

My watching the sunset isn't just about me staying close to those I lost, but trying to stay close to the fourteen-year-old boy who always looked to the skies.

He's getting farther and farther away from me.

"Curtis!" I look up and see Randy Adderson's lanky frame just a few feet away from me.

My fourteen-year-old self would never guess that Randy would be one of my closest friends, but here we are.

Any other time, I'd be glad to see Randy, but not tonight.

I picked Lucky's specifically to avoid Randy. I hadn't seen Randy for three months, and like a zit on prom night, there he was.

Soda, can't stand Randy. He can't stand draft dodgers or as he refers to them, "pussy-ass dick-sucking cowards." Soda can see shades of grey in every situation and he can empathize and get along with anyone, but the whole issue of draft evaders was one issue where Soda will not budge.

He joined the Army, but he knew too many people who were drafted into the army and never came home at all.

I stand up to shake Randy's hand and he gives me hard slap on the back.

Darry gives him a quick handshake and a nod, but Soda just gives dismissive wave and pretends to be very interested in his plate when Randy tries to shake his hand.

"Adderson," my brother's face is steel and eyes blaze with contempt as he stares Randy down.

Randy is taken back by Soda's intimidating glare, but he doesn't break his own eye contact.

Just give up, I want to tell him, you can't win against Soda. When my brother wanted to be, he could be cruel and vicious.

Lucky for us, he wasn't a cruel man and didn't strive to be one, but Soda wasn't a man you wanted to push, because he might fall, but he'd break you into a million pieces on his way down.

"Hey, Pony, can I talk to you?"

Soda snorts and mumbles, "ass wipe" under his breath, but loud enough for us all to hear.

I glare at Soda, but don't say anything.

Soda was acting like an asshole but he's my brother, and even when he's wrong, I'm going to defend him to the death.

"Um, sure, Randy." This better be good, I think to myself.

"Man, look at you, you're really trying to emulate Papa, huh?"

I snort, "yeah, let's just hope I don't have the same ending as Hemingway."

Besides Aimee, Randy was the only other person who 'gets' my love of literature.

"How is Aims? She had the baby yet?"

"Yup, baby girl, her name is Paige Leigh, born March 11th 4:47 P.M." I dig out my wallet for a picture of my baby. Yeah, I'm one of those dads.

"Congratulations!" Randy gives me a bear hug and for such a skinny guy, he sure got a strong grip.

"She's beautiful," Randy smiles as he looks at the picture. Of course, she is, but I got to admit I feel a little burst of pride when other people compliment my child.

"That's all Aimee," I say, "but, I am responsible for those ears that stick out."

"How is Aims doing?"

"She's doing well, she'd love it you came over," I say with sincerity. Randy is one of Aimee's closest friends.

"Of course, I'd love to see the baby too. Listen, Pony, the reason I wanted to see you is, I think I might know where your brother's son is."

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns**

 **The Gulag Archipelago is a reference to the book by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn**

 **Looking for Mr. Goodbar is a reference to the 1977 film based on the book by Judith Rossner.**

 **Gracias, Thank You, Merci, for reviews, reads, follows and favs, I'm grateful for it all.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Long chapter, every character gets a little section. The action is slow, but I hope you still enjoy.**

 **Thanks**

* * *

"Ain't that bad," Soda mutters, popping another piece of fried shrimp in his mouth.

I look down at my piece, trying to find the meat hidden underneath all of the thick, fried batter. Sure, not bad if you don't mind a triple bypass. "Hmmm, ain't that good either."

Soda shoots me a cocky grin, "Ain't exactly country club fare, is it, Dar? Damn, I still can't believe you and Cathy belong to a _country club_."

I shrug nonchalantly, though I'm feeling a bit defensive, "you want to get anywhere, you got to have connections. Besides, isn't like we belong to Southern. Now that shit, that shit is expensive."

I don't tell him that I hope in five years Cathy and I will have enough money to join Southern.

But the whole part about needing connections to get anywhere? It's the damn truth. I'm a hard worker, I busted my ass for years and still put in 50, sometimes 60 hour weeks at my company, don't see my family nearly as much as I want to, or should. I leave a lot of the day to day parenting to Cathy, sweeping in when my kids really misbehave or when I want to do something extra special with them.

But all the sweat I put into my business didn't count for anything until Cathy and I joined that country club. Just like that I got new connections, new leads and prospects for jobs. Business has been booming, and all because I know the right people.

 _I don a tuxedo, Cathy, an evening gown complete with the simple gold necklace I bought her and even though she told me that she's uncomfortable on the drive up, once we're there, we're both on our A game. She's vivacious without being annoying, friendly without being overly so, feminine and doesn't overshadow me, but a true asset and partner. I don't think I'd ever felt more proud to be her husband._

 _When we get home, I owe her a foot rub. As she lays in bed, eyeing the evening gown draped over the chair she looks at me, "_ _I hate this Darrel, this isn't me, it's so phony. And those women, Darrel, did you see how skimpy their dresses were? If these are the best of Tulsa, no thank you." That's when I'll wrap my arms around her and whisper seductively, "but you're so good Mrs. Curtis, and you know what else you're good at?"_

I can't be positive, but I think we conceived William that night _._

"Why are you so interested, figurin' on joining TCC?" I josh.

Soda laughs, "Shiiit, them ol' rich biddies take one look at Mary at all her tats, never mind me and my tongue ring and they'd have to yank Marcus 'fuckin' Welby out of retirement to save 'em all from heart attacks. 'Sides, my woman don't exactly keep her opinions to herself, you know," Soda said with a pride in his voice.

 _That's for_ _sure_ , I think to myself.

"How you convince Cathy to join TCC? She's way too nice to be a TCC chick."

"Convince her? I'm her husband, I _**told**_ her we're joining," I cross my arms and try to look intimidating, but Soda just cracks up.

"Nah," I continue, "we compromised, I got her to join the club with me, and this summer..." my voice drops a whisper, "we're taking a his & her jazzercise class."

Soda is laughing so hard I'm afraid he's gonna choke. He slams his hand on the table and lets out a 'yahoo.' "God DAMN, I love your wife. Any woman who can force you to do fuckin' jazzercise has got some cojones," he hoots.

"It's just for the summer, I got her committed to the country club for life." Just so we're clear, Cathy didn't force me to join her exercise class, and I know I got the better end of the deal, in the long run.

Truth is, Cathy didn't object too much to joining Tulsa Country Club, she knows how important my business is to me, to both of us. She is smart, practical and determined, she has to be, otherwise I would have never married her.

Soda winks, "you gonna get a leotard? Green's your color, man. "and a one, and and a two, and move those hips!" Soda moves his legs and arms up and down and pretends to flip his hair back.

I shoot Soda the finger, which only gets him to laugh even harder. He's enjoying this too damn much.

"Yeah, keep it up and I'll beat your ass in two-second flat." I still work out at the same busted gym I did back when I was a twenty-year-old kid. I may live in a fancy neighborhood and belong to the country club, but damn if I'm gonna forget where I came from or who I am.

I'm still the only guy in my neighborhood who drives a pickup, and I'm the only guy in my neighborhood who worked with his hands and who knows the pride and pain of physical labor.

It's just that nowadays I'm just as comfortable chatting it up with CEOs over a fancy four course meals of duck stuffed with asparagus and thyme as I am chugging down a few cold ones with my buddies.

"Damn," Soda closes his eyes and rubs his lower back, "guess, I pulled something."

"Hmm, looks like you could use some jazzercise yourself, huh, bud?" Soda tries to laugh, but he winces. Soda has a high threshold for pain, and if he's wincing, he's in some serious pain.

"You okay, Soda?" I put my hand on his shoulder, my brother is tough son-of-a-gun and he works hard, real hard, too hard, to support his family. Never thought I'd see the day where my wildass kid brother is constantly pulling muscles. He keeps it up, in a few years he isn't going to be able to walk without a limp.

I decide to make my move even though I know what the answer's going to be. "You know Soda, you can always work for me. It's hard work but it ain't as bad as being a roughneck up in Stillwater."

Soda breathes in deep. When Soda is pissed he usually goes from 1 to 100 just like that, a human jitsu machine who's not afraid to hit below the belt when he feels cornered. But once he explodes, his anger will dissipate and he will go back to being his normal, affable, friendly self.

But now Soda adopted an anger tactic from me, the cold, detached iced anger. His anger and his temper, even his blows, both physical and mental, I can deal with, this calm anger, confounds me.

Soda's shoulders hunch up and he says flatly and without emotion, "ain't nothing wrong with being a roughneck, Darry. It's who I am."

"Yeah, it's also breakin' your back. You can do better Soda."

It's the truth. I'm treading on dangerous ice here, but I have my reasons.

"No Darry, I really _can't_ do better. It's who Dad was, you ashamed of him, too?" His voice is soft as he twists the knife in my side.

It's my turn to slam my fist against the table.

"Fuck this crap Soda. I ain't ashamed of Dad and I sure as hell ain't ashamed of you. Fuck, you put me to damn shame with your work ethic, but you are stubborn as a mule, and if you continue working like this, in a few years, you're gonna be a crippled mule. I can get you a job that pays about the same as you're making now and you don't gotta take half the risk."

Soda shrugs, his tone and body more relaxed and open, "maybe the risk is half the reason I like it."

It's the truth, Soda almost 30 has never really outgrown his love of danger, if there's not a risk involved, it isn't worth it to him.

For all the times I wish Soda would be like he was before, this is one quality I wish he would outgrow. I thought married life would relax him, but just figure my brother ends up with the one woman just as wild as he is.

I love her because she's crazy about Soda and Soda damn near worships her, but she's out there.

Personally, if Cathy ever decided one day to don a feather headdress and a sequined bra and underwear, but not anything else, and perform a one woman chorus line dance on the counter of San Francisco's largest gay bar; my first move, after changing my name, would be to check us both into a mental hospital.

She did so in honor of her friend's "Tulip's," birthday. Tulip is a man. I guess if you're in the salon business, you're going to know a lot of gay men. Tulip, Mary proudly lets us know, was part of a theater group called "The Cockettes." Yes, _COCKettes._

Listen, homosexual, heterosexual, it don't matter to me. Live and let live. Treat everyone squarely. My Uncle Pat is a gay man and I love him to death, but, I just don't get it.

With visions of drag queens dancing in my head, I turn to Soda. "I'm offering you a job in the construction business, Soda, not some namby-pamby office job. Besides you gotta wife to consider now. It's not all about you, Soda."

My size 12 boots go straight into my mouth. Soda is dangerously protective of Mary. You want to really get Soda riled up, tell him that he doesn't look after his wife.

I'm expecting him to explode, preparing myself mentally for the blows that will come my way, cringing when I think of how much Soda has drunk this night.

Soda looks hurt, not angry, his eyes wide, his lips slightly open. A wave of guilt washes over me. I start to apologize.

But Soda looks at me and speaks in a low voice, his tone erily even and calm. "I take care of my wife. I sure as hell don't need you buttin' in and offering me help. At least I support my wife with no one offerin' me any favors or having to join a damn _country club."_

Now I'm pissed as hell. Soda, without even raising his voice, knows how to hit my sore spot. "You think I didn't work hard as hell to get where I am? Fuck, Soda. I'm tryin' to offer you a job but all this defensiveness ain't getting you nowhere. Grow the fuck up."

Soda looks chagrin, and even though I'm pissed, I feel for him. This Soda; defensive, bitter, on edge, ready to jump to the worst conclusion and take everything you say out of context: this all because of that damn ass war.

Soda's face winces with guilt and he gives me a somber smile. "I know. I'm sorry Darry, it's real nice of you to offer, and don't think I'm not grateful, because I am. Man, I would love to be able to provide better for Mary. Cathy is real lucky, I hope she knows that. But, all in all I'm happy doing what I'm doing. Really, I am. The guys are good to me. In a few years I can move up to being a derrickhand or even a driller. Besides, I feel closer to Dad you know? Walkin' in his footsteps."

He gives me half-hearted grin. He's already forgiven me for every unintentional insult I've hurled his way. Soda always forgives.

I grin. I know if Dad is looking down at us from heaven he's be proud of Soda, not only for being so hardworking but overcoming all the crap of the past decade. Me? Sometimes I wonder what he'd think of his boy, his oldest son, his namesake, joining a country club, taking expensive vacations to Hawaii, having friendly dinners with the _Mayor,_ and living on the Southside?

I know he'd be proud of me, he bragged on me, telling everyone that "my boy, he's _going_ places," but sometimes I wonder if he wouldn't tell me to slow down, to spend less time at work and more time with my family. That I already 'made it' that I don't need to conquer the world.

But I do. I'm proud of all I accomplished with Curtis Construction, but I'm still not satisfied. I know I can do more, it's not about the money, it's about being the best and until Curtis Construction in the top construction firm in Tulsa, I can't rest. I'm fortunate that I have a wife who shares my vision.

Funny, isn't it? I'm 33 years old and I'm still worried what my dead ol' man thinks of me. I still miss him more than anything, still yearn for his approval.

Pony comes back from talking to Randy, looking like he's seen a ghost.

"You okay kid?" Old habit. He may be a husband and father but he's always going to be 'kid' to me.

Pony nods, unconvincingly, and sits down, he looks the empty platter.

"I was gone for what? Ten minutes? How the hell did y'all eat all that food?" He eyes us suspiciously.

Soda shrugs, "big appetite. Here, I'll go over the bar and get more food. Don't want my brother starvin'," He pats me on the back and squeezes my shoulder. He shoots us a wide grin and his eyes light up like neon sign.

Though he's trying to hide it, I notice he has a slight limp when walks.

And he winces once more in pain.

* * *

I've been actin' like one motherfuckin' asswipe. Darry was only trying to help out, sure he ain't exactly Mr. Subtle but he always means well. How do I repay him? By acting like a jackass.

The bartender, a middle age man, leaves and is replaced by a young woman who looks way too pretty for this dive. I straighten up and try the old Curtis charm, hoping she'd give me a deal on a meal, because I'm broke as fuck.

Otherwise, I hope Darry and Pony like pretzels and cheese sauce.

I can't really picture Ponyboy Curtis in a place like this. You know how sometimes you can just feel the dirt in the air? That's what Lucky was like. It fit me perfectly, but Pony? Nah, he should be in a place with large windows that looked out onto the mountains, and what's that word he used, ambiance? Yeah, ambiance.

This place feels like stale piss at the bottom of beer can.

They didn't even have a decent jukebox. To my mind, a place don't have some good music, it might as well not exist.

 _Mary and me, we love music. Whatever extra money we have usually goes towards records. We both dig the Stones, Johnny Cash, CCR, Jimi Hendrix. I'm big into The Band, J.J Cale, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Allman Brothers._

 _But Mary she takes music it to a whole other level. You see her closing her eyes, lifting her arms up to God and swaying to an Aretha Franklin gospel album and you think you got her all figured out; but then you blink and there she is shaking her firm little ass like a tambourine, her titties moving up and down like maracas, her hair flying like a kite in the sky as she's sweatin' up a storm rockin' it out to Joplin or The Sex Pistols._

 _And she gets me so hot that it takes every bit of self control I have not to fuck her right then and there, feeling her rockin' roller heart beat next to mine._

 _She introduced me to musicians I ain't never heard of before: Iggy Pop, New York Dolls, Moby Grape, Patti Smith, Parliament Funkadelic. Most of those guys ain't really my bag, but Mary digs them. Her main squeeze is Patsy Cline. She's crazy 'bout her._

 _Even has a little shrine dedicated to Miss. Cline in our home, said Patsy helped her overcome some real tough times growin' up._

 _She can't stand Elvis though. How someone don't like Elvis is crazy, although I'm more of a Jerry Lee Lewis guy myself._

 _She once told Two-Bit that Elvis was an 'overrated mama's boy who stole music from black musicians,' and I thought Two-Bit was gonna have a fuckin' aneurysm._

 _She did cry watching Elvis's funeral on T.V. Went through every damn Kleenex box in the house. Loud crying too._

 _"You're about to wake up Elvis from the dead there with your crying, my darling. Thought you hated Elvis, and here you are weeping like a half-crazed banshee." I teased her._

 _She looked at me, all red-eyed and sniffling "I'm cryin' cause a man died ,Soda. And for his poor baby girl, just think Soda, that baby isn't going to grow up to know her Daddy." She blows her nose hard, and mumbles under her breath, "His music still sucks." Ah, my baby, she doesn't keep her opinions to herself._

 _I grinned, "if you're this busted over someone's death that you don't even like, I'd hate to see how torn up you're going to be at my funeral."_

 _She laughed, "well that depends babe, how cute is the funeral director? We could be havin' a wedding and a funeral all in one. Deluxe package." She winked at me._

 _I chuckled, "yeah we could get you one of 'em reversible dresses a funeral dress on one side, wedding dress on the other. Use the same priest for both my funeral and your remarriage. Save money."_

 _She laughed at me and wraps her arms around me, pressing her hands against my chest and kissing my neck. "Now you're talking!"_

 _But a minute later, her hands still pressing into my chest, Elvis funeral Kleenex at her feet, her voice unsure and vulnerable, she tells me, "if something happened to you, I don't know what I would do. I don't know who I am without you."_

 _I didn't know what to say, it was both one of the most moving and scariest things I've heard. To know that someone depends on me that much. Truth is I don't know who I am without her. I told her things that I've never even told Ponyboy. She knows every speck of sticky dirt that lies at the bottom of my soul, and she still loves me._

 _More than that, she **likes** me. She thinks I'm a good person. Ain't she out of this world? _

_I don't know what that says about her, she's either a saint or a fool, but I know what that says about me. I'm lucky._

 _"Don't ever go, Soda." Her dark eyes look into mine._

 _And me, the man who has broken so many promises, tells her, "never."_

 _She still can't stand Elvis, though. I still think that's crazy. When she pisses me off and I want to annoy her, I serenade her 'Jailhouse Rock', complete with hip-shaking and lip curling._

 _She don't bite though, she just yawns and offers to get me singing lessons, "at least Elvis could sing in tune," she'll say with a smirk._

I walk up to the bar and start making small talk with the pretty bartender. Unlike Darry who is as straightlaced as they come, I ain't above employing a little friendly flirting here and there to get what I want. But, that's all it is, flirting. Means nothing to me.

Her name is Nea, business is going okay and she's worked at Lucky's for the past three years. She leans towards me, I flash her a grin and, I ain't trying to sound all conceited or nothing, but I swear she made a sound like she was having an orgasm. A very tiny one, but still.

I lean right towards her, laying my accent on thick, cause chicks seem to dig the wild Southern thing I got goin' on.

"Where are you from? Texas?"

I rest chin in my hand, and my elbow lands right in a spilled puddle of beer. Well, this is sexy as all git-out. I laugh it off. After all, ain't like this shirt cost more than $5.00. I've had this shirt for years.

As I wipe my elbow, I tell her, "close, Oklahoma. Up here seeing my brother. His name is Ponyboy..."

Her eyes light up. I mean, genuine light up. The full lights on the Las Vegas Strip and all that.

"Ah, your Ponyboy's brother! He's a sweetheart."

I don't know what to do when someone calls my kid brother a sweetheart, but I nod, "yeah he's a real good ki, man." And I'm not trying to pry, but I'm curious, "he come here a lot?" Like I said, this place is pretty dank and bleak and it worries me if Pony is spendin' all his time here.

The minute I ask, I feel guilty. If I want to know what Pony is doing, I should just ask him, not bother some stranger for facts about my brother's life.

She shrugs, "every so often. Mostly keeps to himself though. He's quiet, but it's nice change of pace. The girls try to flirt with him, but he just ignores them. He's very nice though. Last month a guy started getting fresh with me and Pony is no uncertain terms told him what would happen if he didn't leave me alone. He can be pretty intimidating, when he wants to be."

I nod, but Ponyboy Curtis, intimidating? It's amazin' how you know someone for their entire life, but then a stranger will shine a light on them and you'll see them in a whole new way. I couldn't imagine my sunset watching brother as intimidating, but lookin' at him through the eyes of a stranger I saw how he might come across, he's a big guy, got muscles and heft, his eyes, which I dunno always look rather young and innocent to me, can look weighty and severe when he wants them too.

I'm not surprised that Pony helped out Nea when she was in a jam. That's Pony, he'll do anything to help someone in trouble.

In the end it was the fact that I was Ponyboy's brother, not my half-ass flirtin' which got us a bucket of hot wings for half off. Ponyboy is always surprising me, in the best way possible.

* * *

My stomach feels like it is about to drop through the floor and land in the core of the earth. It feels as heavy as a stone ball.

Before he gets up to get us food, Soda leans over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder, "you okay, Ponyboy?" I nod, or at least I think I nod.

He shrugs, I can tell he doesn't believe me, but I make a crack about the lack of food and he laughs and offers to buy us more.

Honestly, I don't know how I reacted. I'm still trying to digest what Randy told me.

Darry, is staring at the back of Soda's hair with an intense expression. In a small voice, or at least, small for Darry he tells me in a monotone, "Soda's back on the crap."

I'm jolted out of my stupor.

Shit. How did Darry know? I feel ashamed for thinking this, but part of me is envious that Soda might have told Darry that he was back on cocaine before he told me. Cacti of disgust prick the back of my neck.

Darry is still looking directly at Soda's backside, there is no emotion or expression in his face.

"He tell you?" I sit up in my chair and stare at Soda.

Darry shakes his head, "no, Two-Bit saw him..."

What?! Christ how did Two-Bit Mathews get dragged into this mess?

"Shit, Dar, Two-Bit ain't..."

Darry turns away from Soda to give me a pretty impressive side-eye, "Lord no Pony, Two-Bit? Man, you know him boozin' in his only vice. No, Two-Bit saw him doing a bunch of coke at some bar called Scar's."

I have so many questions, like why the hell Two-Bit is caught up at Scar's? Scar's makes Lucky's feel like a country club in comparison.

Darry's eyes raise slightly, "you don't seem that surprised?"

I shrug and part of me was thinking of keeping Soda's secret, but at this time, it was all out of the dime bag anyway. "He told me."

Something flicks behind Darry's eyes, and for a moment I think, let's not go through this again. Let's not fight each other or give into envy. "He didn't tell me about Scar's, or give any details."

Darry sighed and almost to himself, mumbles, "I guess Two-Bit was telling the truth." He lets out a rueful chuckle, "you know Pone, when Two-Bit told me he saw Soda at Scar's doing coke, I wasn't exactly receptive to the news."

I groan. Darry isn't hot-headed like Soda, or I reckon, I can be under certain circumstances, but he can be very, um, 'candid' at times.

He looks at me and he looks as lost and as scared as he did the night Soda broke down in the lot. "Why, Pony? Why does he hurt himself like this? He was doing so good." Darry looks up at the ceiling at the dimmed light bulb and closes his eyes.

In that moment, our roles have changed. I'm trying to rationalize and comfort him. "He's not doing it on purpose, Darry. He seemed real remorseful when he told me. He told me he only did it one time." Granted, he didn't tell me that inhaled a enough cocaine to supply the city of Miami for a month, but still, he did tell me one time.

Darry looks at me, his eyes pleading an old man's eyes in a young man's body, or is that a young man's eyes in an old man's body?

"You believe him?"

I look at Darry and digest his question, I decide to answer honestly, "yes. I do." I mean it. Soda was too remorseful, too upset, too disgusted to go back to cocaine or heroin. I knew that as much as I knew myself.

For the first time, Darry relaxes.

"So, Ponyboy, what do we do? Do we confront him? How do we make sure that his one-time really stays 'one time.'"

Darry is always going to be my big brother, he's always going to parent me in one way or another, but in that moment I could see how much he depended on me. How much he needed me not only to assure him about our brother, but take control and create a plan of action.

"We don't do anything. If we confront him, he'll just think that we're double teaming against him, and he's never going to go to either one of us again. We trust him and look out for him. We wait."

Darry hesitates, but he nods, "I'm on board."

Soda puts his food on a table and runs towards the bathroom.

"Hey Darry," I cock my eyebrow, "if you knew about Soda using again, why the hell did you make that crack about using again in the car?"

Darry speaks in a quick and quiet voice, "I wanted to gage his reaction. Wanted to see how defensive he was or if he laughed it off."

"And?"

Dary sighs, "Two-Bit was telling the truth. It was also the same reason I chose to sit in this seat. I wanted to talk to you about it, but just never got the chance to earlier. I figured that this booth since it's furthest away from the bar and the bathroom would give us the best chance to talk."

"And that's why you picked the dark ale?" Neither Soda or I were much of a fan, but Darry nods again. "yeah, dark ale always gives him the runs." He looks at me sheepishly, "like I said I really needed to speak to you in private without him around."

I shake my head and grin, "you brilliant motherfucker..." Who else but Darry would think of all that? I swear, if the construction business ever goes bust, Darry would make one fine CIA agent.

You'd just have to worry about your targets getting the runs.

* * *

My hubby brings me back a doggie bag of food. After I thank him he just shoots me a crooked grin, "hey, Mary, if I had to suffer, you do too. Isn't marriage all about for better or for worse?"

He kisses the top of my head, and damn, I must be missing him like crazy, because even his boozy kiss makes me feel a surge of love coursing through my veins.

"Nah, it's good, Mare." I would have agreed, but I'm already ripping a hot wing in half and stuffing it in my mouth. Coulda used more spice. Guess it's a Canadian thing? But I shoot him the thumbs up sign anyways.

Soda takes off his clothes into his only in his tighty-whiteys and I climb onto his lap. He places his fingers inside of me. I close my eyes and feel pure bliss.

But's it's more than just being turned on, it's about being with Soda. It's about feeling safe and protected and desirable. I ain't exactly the prettiest gal in the planet, I'm not ugly at all, but Aimee, she's stunning, and Cathy is so perfect and beautiful, I know I can't compete with them.

But, I got Soda. I don't need to compete. I got me the winning ticket, I'm the luckiest gal on the planet. What's the movie called, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Yeah, well I got the golden tickets of husbands.

Don't get me wrong Darry and Ponyboy are fabulous, but Soda he's the only one for me.

Soda always makes me feel safe and comfortable. He's the only man I trust. The only man who hasn't hurt me.

"So, how was your evening?"

I grin, "ah, you know, just three sister-in-laws chatting it up."

He smirks, "I'm surprised y'all didn't kill each other while we were gone."

"Well, there was originally 4 of us, but we ate the fourth wife. Cannibalized her."

Soda laughs, but I look at him, "you really think we'd fight?" A part of me is a bit hurt. I know how important Soda's family is to him, hell, they're my family too. I love 'em.

He shakes his head, "nah, but I do know that if y'all did start fightin' I ought to put all my money on you."

I tell him all about my evening, especially about all of the little retorts C.D. had. That kid tickles me. I mean, he's only four, but some of the stuff he says just gets me on the floor. I love Karen and Billy and now sweet lil' Paige, but C.D., he's my little man.

He's gonna cause his parents lots of trouble when he gets older, but that's all good. Trouble is the spice of life. Ask me, I married him.

Soda wants to screw tonight. But then again, my baby is one horny hubby. I shake my head no and pull my laced black underwear back up.

Soda's upset, "aww, baby, come on, why not tonight?" He's tryin' to keep it light but I know he's riled up. But I also know that he's never going to push more or pressure me to do anything I don't want to. Do you know how rare that is?

Hell, every man I know, 'cept the gay ones and maybe Soda's brothers, treat women like they own them.

"I can't," I say in a firm voice.

He whines and I swear he's soundin' like little C.D. for a moment. "Come on Mare, Pony and Aimme ain't gonna hear us."

Tell you the truth, I didn't even think of Pony and Aimee and truthfully I'm getting kinda frisky myself right now. But I shake my head, "nah, it ain't that babes, I can't make love in front of the dog."

Soda looks at me, "in front of the dog?!" he gives me a bemused smile.

"Yeah," I say shyly, "I just can't make love with a dog watchin' me. Creeps me out." I don't embarrass easily, but for some reason having sex with a dog or a cat in the room just weirds me out.

Soda laughs and kisses me, he turns to the dog, "Rex, you're missing quite a good show, buddy boy."

* * *

The children are asleep in the room next door. I'm glad we decided to get a hotel rather than stay with Pony and Aimee. As chaotic as my own family is, adding Soda, Mary, Pony, Aimee and Paige to the mix, not to mention those two dogs would have been a recipe for disaster.

Speaking of disasters, I try to think about my night with my sister-in-laws. It wasn't a complete disaster, but Mary's words still stung me. But maybe she's right, that's what scares me.

My mother had seven children and I was their second mother, I thought being a mother myself would be easy but it's not. Do you know what it's like to balance a job with three children under the age of five?

Darrel is already talking about having another baby, but I feel so overwhelmed just with three I have. How did my mother do it? How did she raise seven children? How does any woman do it?

I shake my head, Mary ought to just keep her opinions to herself. Honestly, what does she know about being a mother?

I mean, the outfit she had on tonight! I'm not trying to be rude, but she puts the 'short' is short skirt.

I sigh. I know I'm extra bitter tonight and it's best for me to just let go, but I can't.

I turn to Darrel, hoping he'd let me the rant to him, but he's dead to the world, snoring up a storm. I stare at the turned off T.V. set.

* * *

Ponyboy says goodnight to Paige, his finger lovingly stroking her forehead. He tiptoes out of the room because Paige, as strange as it may sound, as a 6th sense about her. If either one of us is upset, Paige will pick up on it, and tonight Pony is upset.

He asks me about my day and he lean forward, but I can tell that his mind is on other things. I hesitate, because my day seems so unimportant to whatever is weighing on his mind. But he insists, throwing in little side remarks and telling me a little bit about his night out with his brothers.

The entire dynamic of my family is so fascinating. I don't think I ever met three brothers as close as Ponyboy and his brothers, and seeing them together is riveting. They all love each other but they're so different. Darry is so take charge, it's the little things, he will automatically situate himself at the head of the table. But you see him when he's alone with his brothers and he's just so relaxed. I can't see the steely eyed executive or former football star, just Pony's brother.

Soda, he's always a blast to be with. He's very affectionate and that can take some getting used to, in my family we weren't big on overt physical displays of affection. But Soda although he's constantly moving, kissing his wife, tickling the kids and wrestling with dogs, there is something, I don't know how to say this without sounding overly maudlin, but sad about him.

Sometimes I look at him and I see the weight of the world in his eyes and it's hard for me to square the man in front of me with all of the wild stories Pony tells me about him.

Pony is my chameleon. He's a big man, but gentle, he's quiet but has a deadly sense of humor. He's not extroverted like his brothers, and neither am I, and sometimes that's awkward when both of us are sitting next to each other, not knowing what to say. But when you do get him going, he's more entertaining than Soda. He's a natural storyteller and he has the gift for letting me see something through new lenses. Although he has no gift for taking photos, he has the heart of a photographer, he can see things through so many different angles.

Watching Cathy and Mary interact, I feel like Margaret Mead, or more to the point, Jane Goodall. It's strange, they're so different from one another, but I like them both. Which I know sounds wishy-washy, but it's true.

I muse on the wonderful, if sometimes infuriating, family I married into, when I realize Pony is biting his fingernails.

I reach out to him, feeling guilt for not noticing how upset he is. That's the thing, as a photographer I have an eye for details or for the big picture, but sometimes I miss what's in front of me.

"What's wrong, Pony?"

"Randy thinks he might know where Patrick is, I don't know what to do Aimee. I have to tell Soda of course, but what if he's wrong?"

I hold his hand and squeeze, I feel so overwhelmed. "Are you worried that Randy might be wrong?"

He shakes his head, "no, I'm more worried that Randy is right."

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **Marcus Welby is a reference to the T.V. show by the same name.**

 **Yes, there was an avant-garde theater group known as "The Cockettes" In 2002 a documentary film was released about them. The character 'Tulip' is based on the real-life founder of the group, George Harris aka Hibiscus. You can watch clips of their performances and more on youtube.**

 **Gobble, Gobble, Happy Thanksgiving!**

 **P.S. I'm putting a spotify music list for each character, once i get it up I'll post info on my profile page. ETA: added music lists. These lists are ongoing: names are as follows Bleecker Street (Pony's list), Wild Horses (Soda's list), I Shall Be Released (Mary) and Sentimental Lady (Aimee). Check out the profile page for more info!**

 **Thanks. :)**


	10. Chapter 10

_**It's been over a month since I updated this story, for those still reading, THANK YOU! You make my day. For new readers, THANK YOU! if you have any questions, I'm more than happy to answer. :) I'm still trying to work on the scene where Pony tells Soda about Patrick, so I decided to write this chapter that will hopefully explore Mary and Soda's co-dependent relationship.**_

 _ **Some graphic war memories/dreams, racial slurs, etc.**_

* * *

 _I wake up pregnant._

 _I roll my eyes, I know the drill. I've been having this dream for the past few months. I dream that I'm pregnant, my heart soars with excitement and this inescapable joy that is coming from inside of me but which is so strong that it manages to engulf me from the inside out and carry me like a newborn baby wrapped in a burrito blanket._

 _Then I wake up, and my belly is as flat as a line of coke, and that heavy, swaddling feeling of being enfolded in ecstasy gives way to feelings of emptiness._

 _But not today._

 _I pinch myself, feel the tiny prick and watch my fingernail mark fade back into my skin. The sun is coming through the blinds and even though the sun is bright it's real cold for April. I shoulda worn something other than just my panties to bed._

 _I don't want to get up, because it's chilly, but I pull the covers off my side of the bed and I look down. I'm huge._

 _Shit._

 _I cross myself, and begin to pray to the Blessed Mother, and those words I have said silently to myself for years rings through my soul: Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus._

 _Thank you God! Thank you! Thank you! Oh, God!_

 _I pinch my other arm, this time really twisting it so two fingernail marks form red lines deep in my skin._

 _I ain't dreaming._

 _"Soda, Soda, Soda", I shake him and he turns to me, eyes still closed, "where's the damn fire…" he mumbles. Soda can be the nicest guy in the world but if you wake him up five minutes before he's ready my man will turn into a moody, grumbling big baby._

 _If he wasn't a man I'd swear he was on the rag._

 _But I don't care. He's mine._

 _"Soda!" I snap at him and this gets his attention, "I'm pregnant." I'm so excited that I think I may be shouting it and one of the dogs wakes up from his slumber at the foot of our bed. For a golden retriever, Hunt or Rex sure sounds like a wild coyote on a full moon night._

 _Soda, opens his eyes part way, and I can see the sleepy eye crust form along the lower lid of his pupil. He breaks into a small, but sweet grin and gives me the thumbs up sign, "good job, babe. I knew you could do it."_

 _Names! Shit, we need to think of names._

 _"Soda, think of a name!" Soda turns around and gives me a wise ass grin, "Chuck, Chuck bo buck banana fanna fo fuc…"_

 _I hit him with the small embroidered pillow that lies between our heads, and I laugh and my laughter is both more full and lighter than I've ever laughed before, I feel like I could fly on its wings and never fall off._

 _Even God laughs, a gentle, yet booming laugh. He knows how much I want this baby._

 _A Crib, A highchair…_

 _"Soda, where we gonna get all the supplies for the, our baby?" I'm bursting with a pure exuberant joy that tickles inside of me. I feel like I swallowed laughing gas, I'm floating on a beautiful high, beaming at the dark blonde curls at the nape of his neck._

 _I hope our baby gets his hair._

 _Soda turns to me and cocks an eyebrow, "damn, Mare, those pregnancy hormones really did a number with your head, huh? Don't you remember, I got a huge raise, we don't ever have to worry about money."_

 _"Your back?" Soda's back acts up at times, he works too hard and is always pulling muscles._

 _He does a somersault, bouncing up with a grin and a ta-da. "Ain't nothin' wrong with my back babe, you know that."_

 _As he talks I feel the cool breeze of Aquafresh leave his soft lips. Back when we were doing drugs his lips got so chapped pieces of skin would fall off in tiny bits of flakes, like dandruff; now they're smooth and a healthy pinkish-red._

 _I smile, I don't remember Soda getting a raise, so maybe he's right about pregnancy affecting brain cells._

 _I stand up and look at myself in the mirror and my titties! Damn. Now my tits pre-pregnancy ain't nothing to be ashamed of, Soda is both a tits and ass man, though he kinda has a leaning for tits. But now? They're like supersize, Hugh Heffner would be speechless._

 _Hell, even I'm turned on._

 _I stick my finger in my mouth, feeling my finger prints against the sweet spot in my tongue._

 _Soda gets strung. I mean he can barely keep control and he pulls me closer, his eyes an elixir of danger and protection and that turns me on, to have my man who will take me the edge but never let me fall off the cliff, not with his baby inside of me…_

 _Nah, instead of going over the cliff, we're gonna soar together. Two wild birds, Soda my wild, sexy hawk and me, his small tan chickadee, but with enormous tits._

 _"Soda!" I cry out for his ecstasy._

 _He puts his hand around my neck and pulls me down. For a second his eyes grow wide, "aw, shit Mary, I'm sorry."_

 _I haven't had any man, not even Soda, put their hands on my neck since that night my ex-husband squeezed me unconscious._

 _It's my sore spot._

 _But now, with Soda, with our baby, it don't hurt. I don't even think of Scott. That vulture-shit can no longer stick his talons into me._

 _Instead, I lean into Soda's grip, and place my hands around his own neck. Feeling his pulse._

 _I tell him to go on, and his face change from concern to charged. He growls, and though there is viciousness to his growl, I know he won't hurt me. There is an electric current which flows from me pulsating throughout my body._

 _But I pull back, "nah we can't, might hurt the baby…" And I'm upset, because right now all I want is for him to give it to me as rough as he can, feeling him inside._

 _But isn't this what I want? Our baby? No, not our baby, his baby. Soda's baby._

 _Soda smiles, a cracked animal growl of sneer. He's sexy as hell. "you're forgettin' babe, that's my kid inside of you, my kid is indestructible. Now turn over. I still want **you** Mary."_

 _He says it as an order, but his voice is almost soothing and gentle, gliding me towards him._

 _We do it doggie style and Soda don't leave no tools in his toolbox, and I'm on fire. I moan and feel his breath on my neck, sending shivers down my spine. feel his hand move down my breast, on top of my stomach and down my legs. I don't ever want him to let go._

 _His hands are gentle and strong, but he's going rough and I don't know what's turning me on more._

 _And I feel safer, more loved, more protected and more cherished with Soda going through my backdoor than I ever had under my first husband's nimble touch. When he wasn't beating me, he was real gentle and soft, like a feather._

 _This sex is the best sex I've had in my entire life. Soda, he knows where to find my g-spot, believe me, he ain't got no problems making me happy, but I feel sexy and wild and free and beautiful in a way I've never felt before._

 _Like a Greek Goddess with long silky hair, and beautiful breasts, being with my man._

 _And our baby, that life, that God gave to us, floating between us. A little blonde, curly haired robin, who never shuts up, like his daddy._

 _This is why I got clean. This is why. Because this feeling is the best hit in the entire world, I'm with my man, he's sexy and he's all mine and even though it's bitter and cold outside, the sun shines through._

 _And I ain't dirty, I ain't broken._

 _How can I be?_

 _I'm carrying our baby._

* * *

 _I'm carryin' my weapon: M60 Machine Gun, AKA The Pig and an itch. I'm wishin' more than anything that I can scratch it, take a pen, or a twig, or even a knife and scratch that fucker to numbed bliss._

 _But I'm covered in dirt and sweat, a layer of grime; and shit, if mom saw how dirty I am, she'd make me take a bath 'til I was blue in the face and hiccupping Dial. But she ain't here. She's lucky, she's clean and floating up in heaven, dancin' in the clouds; and I'm covered in bugs and dirt in this jungled hell._

 _I'm never gonna get clean. The dirt on the outside seeping through my pores, or maybe it's the other way around? Maybe I was never clean…_

 _I'm covered in camouflage: green and black, protecting my face from the elements. I blend in with the wild of the jungle, but hiding in a thick bushy vegetation, I don't feel free or wild, but a trapped animal in a cage of bamboo and sharp sticks._

 _I don't dare move, because one noise could give away my position. The sun cracks through the canopy jungle, tiny slits letting in a tiny bit of light. It's hotter than hell up in here, the heat frying my eyes, my tongue and my ears, but coolness is a luxury I can't afford, not when every second I get closer and closer to dying._

 _We have rules of engagement, rules governing when we can shoot and who we can shoot, but in the heat of moment those rules burst open and fall apart like a shell. The only rule here is killed or be killed, oh, and don't drink the water unless you wanna spend the next few days shitting out a brown river._

 _I see him. Motherfuck, I see him. Tall guy, at least tall for a Gook. 5'7._

 _I see the grenade in his hand, he's aiming it right towards my guys: Phil, Coop and T.P. I pull Phil down violently, yanking down on his flak jacket which is bunched up and makes it feels like he has tits._

 _Big ass tits._

 _Ain't it weird what you think of before you die?_

 _"Soda!" he cries, his voice cutting through my brain._

 _I don't have time to deal with this bullshit, but I growl at him, "shut up!" he knows better. He ain't green no more, fuck, if we're gonna die at the hands of some dickface with a grenade._

 _As I push Phil out of the way and hold him down so he won't jump up and try to play hero, my other arm takes on a life of its own._

 _I smoke the Cong._

 _But he's not dead. No he rises up from the ground and he's coming closer to me. Phil, Coop and T.P. fade away, and the man comes closer, and as he gets closer I get smaller and smaller, I look around and blackness rushes around me, my heart beats faster, a bit of foam mixed in with a metallic sour fills my mouth, my knees are frozen._

 _I can't breathe, it feels like an elephant stomps on my chest, leaving me shallow breath._

 _My hands are so heavy I don't think they can hold up a gun, let alone pull the trigger, I dig for my knife, the last refuge. As the man comes closer I can't see anything but his shadow. He feels as big as an elephant, sucking up all the air around me._

 _The ground spins beneath me._

 _I don't want to kill someone at point blank range, personal with a knife; I prefer my kills with the gleam of distance. I don't wanna see the whites of their eyes or feel their salty breath bearing on my neck._

 _I still can't believe little Johnny Cade of all people killed someone with a knife, thrusting that knife into that Soc's body. For as long I live, which judging from mad rush the un-killable soldier makes for me, ain't gonna be long, I'm never gonna comprehend it._

 _But at one point, just when he looks like he could stomp me dead by pressin' one toenail on my camo body, he starts shrinking and he becomes younger and younger and smaller and smaller. But I'm still suffocating, feeling like I did when I was a little kid and Mom bundled me too tight under my covers, my blankets wrapped around like a casket._

 _His grenade is replaced by a cherry popsicle, and he bites into it. Spraying me with red juice._

 _GET THE FUCK AWAY! I try to scream out, but nothing comes, something grabs my throat and I pull the invisible monster off._

 _His popsicle becomes a gun, an AK-47 and he starts shooting, his face a snarled animal._

 _And I hate him, I hate this kid for making me kill him, for making my trigger finger itch with lust for killing. For making me thrust a knife into his belly full of popsicles, Cola and famine. I'm beggin' for mercy, not for him, but for me._

 _Oh God! Something flickers in front of my eyes: rain? Tears? I don't know, but I'm blinded and no light can get in._

 _But I want to get out here, Oh God. I can't do this. Please help ME. Oh, God. I don't want to die, but I can't live._

 _God damn it._

 _GOD!_

 _I'm crying out in agony, my body convulsing, I pull my knees closer and rock, rock away. But, God, he laughs at me. What was it Pony said, 'we ain't His favorite people?' Yeah, we ain't._

 _He starts shooting again, the kid starts shooting and my mind fills with a pink haze, pieces of flesh hit me, and there's more blood on me than inside of me._

 _I have no choice, I kill him._

 _As the knife goes in, I see the life suck out of him: and my knife is still waddling inside him like a knife in a vat of Jell-O. Mom always made good Jell-O. I miss my parents. But let's face it, after all I've done since I arrived in 'Nam, I ain't never gonna see them again._

 _I see his eyes, as they roll back I see them: he has my eyes._

 _I see my nose: he has my nose._

 _I see my ears: he has my ears._

 _I see on his face a lopsided, disheveled grin that I rarely wear anymore, sliced off my face like the sick trophies Cooper collects, and pasted on his._

 _I look at him, and I hate him with every fiber of my soul. I thrust the knife in further._

 _Because that boy is me and with all my strength I twist the knife into me the killer, the savage animal, I want to slash that grin and throw it to the vultures._

 _I grunt, my face a cruel mirror of his laughing, carefree death throes. I want him to suffer, I need him to suffer, because I don't deserve mercy, but damnation. Then his face changes: he pleads with me…_

 _Dad?_

 _His voice is filled with pain, and he's looking at me with fear and his hands tremble, his eyes wide like he saw a ghost. Or a demon. Or his daddy._

 _The boy he ain't no Cong, he ain't me, it's worse: he's my son. And my bloody hand moves for his chest, hoping against hope that he's still alive, feeling a part of me beating away, but his chest is cold._

 _I killed my kid. I know I should feel the weight of the world crashing in on me, but right now I feel nothing. But an evil, sickening numbness._

 _Voices ring through my head: Darry: Soda, get off of him! Pony: Soda's it's me, it's just me. Me: I'm gonna hurt him, I'm gonna hurt him! Get him away from me!_

 _Pony and Patrick fuse together til I can't tell them apart. All I know is that my hands, killer hands, destroy them both._

 _A childhood memory breaks through._

 _"Soda, how come you always get so dirty?"_

 _"I dunno Mom!"_

 _I place my dirty hands around my neck and start to squeeze, squeezing out the killer inside of me, but they fall limp._

 _I am suckered into the pit of hell, crying out to no one. Because who can hear me? Everyone's eyes, ears and mouths are sliced off, put away in Coop's special box._

 _An anguish cry that makes no sound spews out of me. I open my mouth and nothing comes. I roll my eyes back._

* * *

 _I hear him come back to life, a slight gurgling sound, a low purr like a kitten. And his body is no longer his body or Pony's body, but the small tender curves of a woman._

 _An ugly thought crosses my mind._

 _Slowly the leaves of trees become blind slits, letting in the sun._

* * *

I'm dreaming. This is a dream. I'm not in Nam, that boy ain't me, or Pony or Patrick.

I was dreaming, it was only a dream.

It's okay, It's okay, It's okay.

* * *

I remember what my therapist tells me: look for an anchor point and take deep breaths. My eyes dart around the room, I don't recognize anything. I don't see Mary's crosses, my lasso wall decoration, my chair with clothes thrown on it from the night before because I'm too lazy to toss it in the hamper.

Breathing hard, hands trembling, out of the corner of eye, I see my anchor. I pull on Mary.

A wave of relief washes over me, only to replace with a gnawing pit frozen in my stomach. Oh God, I hope I didn't wake nobody up.

I get right into Mary's face, starring intently at her, but her eyes are glued shut, she's purring, there is a smile on her face, but she's still asleep.

Whatever thrashing, mumbling and ranting I did in the middle of the night remained trapped inside of me, where it belongs.

I carry my sickness with me, I can't ever get away from it.

* * *

Soda is yanking on me awfully hard, don't get me wrong, I'm loving every bit of my frisky man, but damn, he's like a cat in heat! As I look down at my sexy, womanly form, my boobs become shrunken heads. What the hell is happening? I put my hand on top of my belly, worried that I haven't felt our baby move yet. As I place my hand on top of my belly, my belly shrinks inwards. Becoming smaller and smaller.

I was dreaming. It was only a dream.

* * *

I'm still gripping onto Mary and I see that her face is contorted, the left side of her face rises slightly and her eyes open wide.

Shit. As quickly as I can, I let her go, "shit Mare, I didn't hurt you, I didn't hurt you? I didn't hurt you?"

My voice is not my own, and it rises, there is anger and disgust in my voice and I'm pissed off at both of us. At myself for being a fuck up and still having nightmares at almost 30 years old, and Mary for putting up with my shit; for having a 'man' who whimpers in the middle of the night like a goddamned baby.

I want to pull away from her, to let her go free from my grip, but I can't.

Protecting her is the only time when I still feel like the boy I used to be. The boy who stayed up with Ponyboy all night when he was having his night terrors, the boy who gave Darry muscle rubs and held late night pow-wows with my brothers. For a brief second, I close my eyes and see my mom, she's smiling at me. I'm all clean.

She shakes her head, making a tiny noise, a slight rumbling of pain like from a papercut, as she moves one of my hands off her stomach.

"You could never hurt me Soda," her voice is far and distant, and she rubs her neck. I know I should figure out what's wrong, but sometimes I'm selfish. I pull myself towards her, wrapping a strand of her hair on my finger, and my mood instantly calms down. I sigh with relief. I am covered and safe. I'm full. I pull closer to my woman.

"Did you have a nightmare, Soda?" There is concern in her voice, even though she sounds weary. I feel her hand on top of my cheek, almost a light touch. Her hands are sweaty.

I nod, "yeah, no big deal," I say in as cheerful of a voice as I can manage. I lie to my wife sometimes. Grateful that she doesn't seem to be in the mood to hold me on my obvious bull.

In the beginning I used to get real bad nightmares, now even when the nightmares tear me up inside, I usually don't show the outward signs: the screams of terror, the sweating, the violent thrashing.

I murmur softly into her ears, nibbling on them.

* * *

As Soda pulls towards me, snugged up like bug, mumbling some love lines that I don't want to hear, I look down at my body. My titties are like dried apricots, my belly shrunken inward.

An empty carcass.

As much as I love Soda, I never felt more dried up and exposed.

Empty.

I turn away from him. He still pulls on me and I never felt more alone. He sighs happily and continues to sleep.

Me?

I stare up at nothingness. My throat tight with tears that won't come out.

* * *

I wake up to Aimee's curves, as she stands in front of our bed, her back turned towards me, and in a reverse strip tease, gets dressed. Her luminous full moon body a lighthouse anchoring the seismic waves of my bundled up nerves.

"God, you turn me on…" I say with admiration, my toes touching her bare legs.

She turns to me, now buttoning up her faded purple dress shirt, a wide grin and fluttering eyes: "why, thank you Mr. Gent, I swear you are the peach to my apple tree."

She's doing an impression of our neighbor, Mrs. Phoenix. Mrs. Phoenix, a retired high school algebra teacher cannot calculate that Aimee and I have different last names, hence she always introduces me to friends and family who pop into her house like assorted chocolate and pralines in my mouth at Christmas time, as Mr. Gent.

She in her stooped wisdom, using a walker with tennis balls to waddle from place to place, has also declared me 'sexy,' and my accent 'irresistible.

Whenever we talk she comes out of our conversation talking like a stock character in a Margaret Mitchell book, adding a thick drawl and enough syrupy language to drown a pancake.

Personally, I don't think I have much an accent, but Aimee tells me that for people up here I sound like I just strolled off the ranch.

" _Face it Pony, you're a cowboy."_

 _Yippee._

I, on the other hand come away from my neighborly talks with Mrs. Phoenix with no more knowledge of sums, coefficients and variables than what was forced fed into me by the teachers at Will Rogers.

Are you nervous, Pony?

I hold Aimee's hand and shrug my shoulders. "I shouldn't be nervous, this is good news, right?"

Before she can answer me, I shake my head, of course this was good news, unmitigated, unabashed good news, maybe even a miracle.

No, this is a miracle. Patrick, my brother's son, my nephew, our family's lost soul, is found.

Then why am I so nervous? Why does my stomach twirl like it did after riding the Merry Mixer? And why do I fear that once more Soda's gonna end up covered in my vomit?

* * *

Speaking of miracles Paige Leigh Gent-Curtis with the elocution of a Televangelist on collection day, wailed in her crib, her fists flying high like a mast, her feet sloshing like sails through the thunder shaking sky.

I lean over her crib and tickle the soles of her feet.

"Gosh, Paige-Paige, you keep it up and you're gonna kick Jim and Tammy Faye out of a job," I say in the closest approximation to baby talk I can muster. Oh yeah, me and Aimee, we don't do 'baby talk' with Paige. Between her well-meaning aunts, uncles and cousins we hope Paige has heard enough itty-bitty, cutesy talk this week to last until pre-school.

Aimee smiles down at Paige, her hand massaging our daughter's stomach, "except she makes more sense."

Paige farts, a perfect response. Aimee merely smirks at me, "see, what did I tell you?"

Aimee puts on the record, we keep a record player in Paige's room and play music to lull her to sleep or to calm her down; Fleetwood Mac is always in popular demand with both of the women in my life.

"And I love you, I love you, I love you like never before," Christine McVie via Aimee sings to our daughter. Aimee holds Paige's small hand in her own as the song fades out, and Paige looks up at her Mama and starts to drool.

I know I'm biased, but damn, did we make a pretty baby.

Aimee walks back to the record player and moves the tonearm a few notches to find her current favorite song, _Oh Daddy_. Paige, our captive audience, smiles, and I know it's just gas, but she's perfectly adorable, and gosh, I'd like to think that she's smiling at us.

 _You soothe me with your smile_

 _You're letting me know_

 _You're the best thing in my life_

A baby bird flies by our window, a tiny robin fluttering it's unsteady wings.

 _And the songbird are singing like they know the score,_

 _And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before._

* * *

I'm still tangled up the covers, my legs wrapped around Mary's legs. My toes digging into her. I'm trapping her. I want her to carry me away, I lean into her, "I love you, I love you, I love you, babe."

I feel okay, I'm with my wife, my brother, his sweet wife and his adorable baby roaming their house. Dreams can't hurt me.

* * *

Soda is being so sweet, but I'm not in the mood for sweetness, because his kindness just reminds me that he's still with me even though I'm a broken. Besides, diabetes runs in my family.

My man saved me more times than I can count, he's the best thing that ever happened to me, he protects me, and usually his smile, his words and his eyes can soothe me down off the ledge when I'm itching for that fix, but I don't understand why he wants **_me._**

I look outside the window and see the shadow of a bird flying away. I shiver.

"You cold, babe?" Soda drapes an arm around me, like a protector, a provider, a nurturer. I need Soda to protect me, more I want Soda's protection, his big hawk arms over my cold body. But right now, not even Soda can soothe me.

"Nope, just watching the birds fly away, baby."

I fly away with them. I close my eyes and jump off the cliff. A lump forms in my throat.

* * *

"EWWW!" I hear Karen scream, and automatically I reach for my gun safe. Cathy didn't want guns in the house, around 'her babies' but I told my wife that there was no way in hell I wasn't going to defend my family.

Under protest, I kept my hunting rifle and two shot guns, but they have to be kept under lock and key.

She's still trying to convince me to get rid of them.

Karen rushes towards us, "C.D. peed all over me! EWWW! EWWW!" She shakes and bursts into a crying fit.

"It's running down my leg!"

"Karen, sweetie, calm down, you sound like a banshee." Cathy is already running soapy water in the bathroom sink.

Through her hiccup cries she looks at me, "what's a banshee?"

"Ah, never mind, Karen. Mommy will clean you up, I'll take care of your brother."

Sitting up in the hotel bed he shares with his sister my son sits up on the bed with the biggest shit eating grin you'd ever seen. Goddamnit, this kid.

"C.D…"

He is soaked. I lift him up and put him down eyeing the big wet spot on the covers. How much did this kid drink? Christ Almighty. I calculate the extra tip I'm going to give housekeeping.

I thought putting Pony through college was expensive.

C.D. just shrugs, "she was bouncing the bed, Daddy. I was playing the game."

I roll my eyes and try to keep my voice even, "what game?"

"I see how long I can hold it in before I gotta pee. We play it at school," he says solemnly.

I shake my head, what hell kind of game was this? And did his pre-school teachers know my son was ruining his kidneys?

I hear Cathy try to calm Karen down, "Karen, it's not that big of deal, you peed way more on Daddy and me and we didn't complain."

I take C.D. to the bathroom to clean him up.

"Okay, no more playing this game, okay? The moment you gotta tinkle…" (God, what happened to my vocabulary? Talk about talking like a wuss, my construction crew would be laughing their asses off if they heard me now, tinkle?"

C.D. stop touching yourself.

Wait, C.D. do you gotta tinkle? I mean piss? I mean pee?

You sure?

Damn it, Carlson.

I mean darn it, hey, buddy, let's not tell Mommy what Daddy just said okay?

Yes, Daddy is stupid.

* * *

 _ **S.E. Hinton owns. Fleetwood Mac owns/sings "Songbird" and "Oh Daddy" Jim & Tammy Faye is a reference to televangelists Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker**_

 _ **There are some callbacks to my Soda in Vietnam story, but I don't think you need to read that story to understand this chapter. But for the unfamiliar here are some cliff notes:**_ _ **in Vietnam one of Soda's fellow soldiers, Cooper, collects 'trophies' of dead Vietcong soldiers. Hence all the reference to body parts and collections. It's horrible, but there are reports/anecdotes about it taking place in real life.**_

 _ **Out in the field, with fellow soldiers Coop, TP and Philip, Soda, kills what he believes to be a Vietcong solder who has a grenade, only to later to discover the soldier is a child soldier around 14 or 15, just a year younger than his own brother.**_

 _ **If you have any questions, let me know. :)**_

 _ **Thank you for reading.**_


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Yes, Soda finally finds out about Patrick. I know took me long enough... ;)**

* * *

When I was three, I accidently stabbed myself with my mother's knitting needles.

Soda and I were eating tuna fish sandwiches and orange juice at our kitchen table which was partly covered with yarn and needles and partly covered with enough crumbs to lead Hansel and Gretel to the moon and back.

On the radio The Andrews Sisters harmonized "Hold Tight, Hold Tight," and extolled the virtues of seafood, and in references that went right above the heads of two Curtis brothers, and presumably three Andrews sisters, sex.

"Hey, Pony do you wanna see some seafood?" Soda had a suspicious grin on his face, but I was too young to read it.

At my eager nod, Soda opened up his mouth all the way, and clumps of tuna and spit-tackled white bread caused me to squeal out "ewww Soda! You're gross!"

"See, Pony SEE food?!" He was laughing so loud that pieces fell out of his mouth and onto the table, producing more laughter, first by him and then by me, even as I moved away from him, making sure I wouldn't be hit by Sunkist bursts of _see_ food.

I don't remember how or why I decided to re-enact the 'happy dagger' scene from Romeo and Juliet, but twenty-three years later, cuts of memory (as it were) still puncture my brain: the tinseled _ping_ of metal needles hitting the linoleum floor as they fell out stubby, tuna covered hands; red yarns and knots of blood threading a long-sleeve shirt down my arm, hand and fingers; saliva, bits of vomit and the acidic aftertaste of orange juice sloshed out of my mouth and down my chin. My scream broke the air.

The sharp, punctured pain, only seemed to worsen by the drips and squirts of blood bursting onto the yellow table cloth. Looking back, I'm wondering if _this_ was the invisible second my love of sunsets flickered my subconscious?

I do know that even now the sight of my own blood makes me slightly nauseous, as does the smell of tuna. Orange juice on the other hand, has no affect on me, go figure. The Andrews Sisters? Well, I never liked them. I do however, enjoy sex.

Soda ran outside to find mom, screaming that I was dying. He may have exaggerated a tad, but when my mother sprinted in, her skin, already pale to begin with, snapped into a bone-grey pallor I yelped like I had seen a ghost.

My mother froze for a second, her eyes centrifuges of panic, before she sprang into action; in one fell swoop Casper had been replaced by Florence Nightingale, she wrapped a dishtowel around my gaping wound, threw a blanket around me, and tossed Soda and me into the backseat of the car (Hold Tight, Pony!).

The bleeding, even with the dishtowel bandaged around me, would not stop.

And I remember Soda, sitting in the back seat with me, while mom weaved in and out of traffic, looking back at me and telling me that I was going to be okay. Her panicked voice slicing into her tender words and convincing me that I certainly was not going to be okay.

My mother, like my oldest brother, was one of the coolest cucumbers I've ever known, nothing could throw her for loop, but she hated blood even more than I did.

I screamed my head off, my head bobbing up and down, my legs kicking at the air. The more she, driving one-hand on the steering wheel and one hand gripping the clutch told me in a strange hurried voice that I was fine, the more I howled. We formed a bizarre call and response.

 _Mom: You're okay baby!_

 _Me: AHHHH!_

 _Mom: Calm down, calm down, calm down! Pony, You're okay! You're okay!_

 _Me: AHHHHHHH!_

At this point I'm guessing I was screaming more out of adrenaline than pain, but Soda took my hand in his and looked me straight in the eyes, our faces close enough that our foreheads almost touched; and told me in a voice so quiet that at first I could barely hear him over the roar of traffic and the honking of the horn, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Pieces of tuna and Miracle Whip formed braces on his teeth, coating his tongue and breath with a wet, fishy smell, but his voice was so soothing and so full of love that I, through my pain, smiled.

He grinned back at me, tuna and all.

Soda, at age six, didn't pull away from me even when a mix of my tears, snot and blood dripped on him. Even though my own breath smelled like sour vomit. No, Soda Curtis actually leaned in closer to me, holding my bloody hand even tighter, pressing his forehead against mine so that we touched. In that second our eyelashes tickled, our noses rubbed and our stinky breaths had only the smallest bridge of air between them. At a glance we looked like conjoined twins fused together, not even the sliver of light reflecting from the car window could slip between us, we were one person. Twins.

He continued to talk to me, "I love you Pony, you're gonna be okay, I love you."

Though I was only three, and I'm not sure how much of this sentiment is based on my actual memory at the time, or the emotions and memories that sifted and layered onto it in the years since, I remember feeling, though still _in_ pain, _okay_ with the pain.

In that brief second, a door opened for us both. I was still bleeding and aching, mom still cursed at too-slow drivers, Soda and I still reeked, and yet we were _okay_. I was not alone, Soda was with me, tangled hair, bad breath, Sodapop. Leaning into my pain. We walked through that door together.

I'm supposed to be the sensitive one, but I always felt I lacked my brother's courage. No, not the courage to rush into a burning building and save those children, not the courage to leave my family and start a new life in a new country; not even the courage to, with sweaty palms and a nervous tick, ask my wife to marry me.

But the courage to see someone in pain and dive right into it. Feeling their pain as my own, sticking myself to them, even as their blood, boogers and tears got on me. Not even caring that particles of food sprayed from my own mouth, because in that moment, all that matter was being with that other person in their moment of suffering. To walk through the door.

My entire life I have tried to repay my brother back for that moment.

* * *

My brother oozed compassion, the idea of suffering with others and sharing their pain. The first couple months he was in Vietnam his letters were filled with all sorts of details about the people and places he saw, he wrote about elephants and holding down children as an army doctor gave them immunization shots, part of the winning hearts and minds chapter of America's longest war. And his compassion for his 'enemy' hit me like the strongest gust of spring wind, he was still Sodapop.

At one point early in his year he wrote to me:

" _There are nights when I try to hate them Pony, I really do, cause here hate is the only thing that keeps people alive. You gotta hate your enemies even more than you love yourself, or else your ass is gonna end up smoked. But get this Pony! I can't hate 'em. You know me, I'll fight anyone, hell I like to fight. But I can't hate them Cong. Even the ones who want to kill me, because they're doing their job and I'm doing my job, except in this place, our job is to kill each other. I don't know if this makes me a coward, I sure hope not, but when I see em digging their fuckin' Ho Chi Minh trails, their faces glistening with sweat, all I can think is if I was in their shoes I'd be right there digging alongside them._

 _Oh, most of the people here don't where shoes, least not out in the villages, they go barefoot or wear sandals. Heard it's different in Saigon, but I haven't been there yet. Thought you would find that interesting!"_

But then his letters changed: colder, clinical and cynical; and when I read these letters a chilled snap yanked me into the reality of war better than any Walter Cronkite report.

When he came home I thought about his emotionless letters to us, and I expected to see an emotionless man, but when he squeezed the daylights out of me and looked into my eyes with an almost tender expression it was as if he never left home; and I remember feeling, along with my indescribable joy, guilt for ever thinking that he would change.

But he had changed.

When he came back to us (and he CAME HOME! I will never not see that moment as a miracle) he was both the same and a different person than he was before. He came home a fun-house mirror version of his pre-war self, but his _pain._

 _ **Oh God!**_

He tried to keep his torment wrapped up, using his arsenal of jokes, charisma, threats, parties, drugs, sex and fights as a bandage to protect us from himself; and yet his agony would not coagulate, it continued to ooze onto all of us.

Slowly the pain he was carrying inside began to strip away the outside layers leaving nothing but the raw and broken heartwood.

And as much as I wanted to share in his pain with him, to fuse my forehead to his, that was one door I couldn't get through! I couldn't make it okay for any of us, because it _wasn't okay._

What my brother went through wasn't okay. It happened and I have to accept that it happened, but it will never be okay. I'm still angry about it, my hands will bunch into fists and my mind reels when I think of generals and politician in D.C. who in their infinite wisdom decided to turn Soda Patrick Curtis from a Tulsa teenager into a hard-hearted hunter.

The anecdote to his pain burned worse than the original wound itself, and my brother, who loved his brothers more than anything in the world, bolted the door between us shut. He dived into heroin, the needle pierced his skin until I could not see one without the other: twins.

I am far from being a moralist, and I try not to tell others how to live their own lives, but all I will say is that heroin mauled our family from the inside out.

I have seen my brother, sitting on the floor, pupils dilated, watching the surreal snuff film his mind played for free ( _children under 18 not admitted_ ) every night. His hair, a mangled and knotted lion's mane, his eyes yellowed and bloodshot ( _a sun!),_ his teeth, sharpened brownish fangs looking as if they could chomp into me, emitting a putrid smell of bacteria and past-expiration date cheese sandwiches, his hand covered in blood. I'm terrified, but he's my brother, and I reach out to him, hoping to pull him up and out of his pain, but when I reach out to him, he pulled away; and if felt as if our entire lives could fall in the darkened void between his hand and mine.

His scream pierced the soundwaves of our future memories. For a long time, I could not think of my brother without hearing that agonizing wail.

That wail haunted me, it kept me awake at night weeks after the last vibration pushed through the wall. I wondered, was this how Soda felt when I cried out at age three? Did my screaming echo through his nightmares?

I cried. I wept from a place deep within me, a place that had not been tapped since my parents died, the tears racketing through my chest and spewing out in bursts. I cried for all of us, most of all I cried for Soda, my brother who never shied away from emotions, even embarrassing and uncomfortable ones, now staring right though me.

It is for that reason that whenever I see a latter-day beatnik wannabe, extolling the coolness of 'H' vis a vis William S. Burroughs, I get an uncontrollable urge to smash their $3.00 beret covered pea-brain against a brick wall.

Because I know, _I know._

And yet, though the door was bolted shut with heroin deadbolts and cocaine locks, there was still a crack of light that got through. Deep inside that tuna breathed six-year-old who held my hand and melded his soul with mine, still lived! _He_ came back to us.

And in that fissure, there existed an entire world. A world where once again my brother was a person that we recognized. He came home.

I'm not saying it was easy, I'm not saying it was without pain; but eventually the three of us met again in that gap, and have stayed there ever since. Together.

My brother is not the same person he was before he left for Vietnam, but neither is he the same person he was during the black tar days and white powder nights of his junkie years. He has learned to settle in and live in that gap, to find love, get clean, move back home, get a job, and be once again, our brother.

Our brother Darry and his wife Cathy have paid him the greatest compliment, they trust him with their kids. He's Karen, C.D., Billy and now my Paige's fun Uncle Soda. He's Karen and C.D.'s babysitter, sparing partner and friend, and I know that Darry trusting Soda with his kids means more to him than any anniversary of sobriety.

Yet, while the three of us meet in the gap and as much he has come back to us, there is still a door. My brother has not allowed himself to completely step out into the sunlight. The reason, is that under the drugs and the PTSD, a part of my brother still walked through the streets of Saigon. His name is Patrick.

Soda was never a proponent of a monk's lifestyle, even in his carefree days; but neither Darry and I ever imagined that my brother's deepest secret was that he fathered a child in the place he learned to kill.

My brother has never forgiven himself. It was that guilt and pain that caused my brother to turn to drugs in the first place, and the ache still remained to this day.

For a ten-year-old that none of us have ever met, Patrick sure weighs heavily on our family. It's in the way Soda will get a far away look when he sees kids who are his son's age. Soda loves us and we love him, but as much as Darry, Soda and I have formed a new bond, and as much as Soda has found the closest thing to happiness since before he joined the army with his wife, he needs his son.

And now, I might be able to finally pay back my brother and give him back his other half.

* * *

"So, get this, my truck is in Steve's shop, so I'm borrowin' Darry's truck, and guess what this mofo has the radio station turned to? Easy 'fuckin' Listening." Soda crackles a laugh, one foot is on the dashboard, one foot is hiding under his bent leg.

I chuckle, I had a hard time picturing Darry, who listened to Aerosmith and Ted Nugent, swaying his construction crew washboard abs to The Platters or Perry Como.

"Maybe he digs The Andrews Sisters?" I say with a wry smile.

Soda looks at me with a blank expression and for a moment I feel heartbroken that he can't remember; but then he smiles and says, "oh yeah, that's who was playing on the radio when you stabbed yourself." He looks at me, and at my arm and hand, as if searching for the cuts and gashes.

"You know Pone, that was terrifying seeing you bleeding, for a second there I thought you were a goner, I truly did." He shakes his head and his eyes are soaked in sadness, and I feel as if I can dive into them and become him at age 6 trying to calm me down while he was an emotional wreck.

Then I remember. He shook. I remember that now. Though his words were calm, when he pressed his forehead against mine, he shook, ever so slightly. He was scared to death, and I never realized it until now.

I realize that the same qualities that made Soda such a compassionate boy, also made him more susceptible to the never-ending waves of trauma. He feels everyone's pain, he can't stop feeling. When he stops feeling, he loses what makes Soda, Soda.

I swallowed the lump that bubbled through my throat, "well, here I am, none worse for the wear."

Soda looked out the window, his eyes focused on a horizon I could not see. "You know, in the hospital, mom yelled at me. She yanked me outside by the arm and started screaming that I should have looked after you. She wouldn't stop shaking me. I felt like one of those marionettes on a string."

Soda flapped his arm up and down and I shivered, trying to block out the image from my peripheral vision.

"She apologized profusely, of course, and you know mom, she could never forgive herself when she made a mistake. But at that moment, it was almost as if she was possessed. I don't think I even saw Dad that mad, and shit, you know he had a temper."

Inexplicably, Soda has a slight smile on his face as he shakes his head, remembering the bull-like temper that would flare from our easy-going father. But Soda has a temper of his own, so he understood that part of Dad.

Now it was my turn to give him a double take. "Shit man, I'm sorry. Besides, she was the one who left the sewing needles on the kitchen table…" I gripped the steering wheel even tighter, picturing my beautiful mother, normally steady and even keeled, the rock of our family, laying into the one person who made me feel better.

Soda cut right into me, his eyes stern, putting his hand up in a surrender motion and shaking his head, "no Pony, she was right, I should have looked out for you. She trusted me with you. Besides," his voice became surer and more passionate, as if he was delivering the closing argument in a death penalty case, and all that stood between his client and the electric chair were his words; "she was a great mom. She never beat the crap out of us like Johnny's parents or got drunk like Two-Bit's mom."

"Hey," I cut in, "I like Mrs. Mathews." I really did. Sure, she drank a bit, but she always jovial and kindhearted. Using her as an example as a 'bad' mother when she was nothing but open-hearted to my brothers and me, not to mention raising two children on her own after her husband left, put a sour taste in my mouth.

Soda shakes his head and place his fingers on his forehead, "nah, that's not what I mean. I love Mrs. Mathews too. But do you know how lucky we were to have our mom? We got the golden ticket there, Pony. _She_ felt guilty about leaving those needles out, that's why she lost it with me. She knew that if something happened to you I wouldn't have forgiven myself. She was looking out for both of us. If this was the worst thing mom did to me, I was pretty lucky, don't you think?"

I think about my brother's life, of all of us, Soda has endured way more his share of bad luck.

He takes a deep breath and I feel the tension in the car deflate.

Soda could always see the bright side of everyone else's foibles and he was right, mom was incredible and I felt guilty for even being mad at her for yelling at Soda.

Besides, can you be mad at a ghost? I miss her and dad even more since Paige's birth.

"Anyways," Soda says looking down at a gum wrapper on the floor of the car, "we can't pick our parents, we have to make do with the life we're given."

My heart skips a beat and I'm wondering if he's thinking about Patrick and I want to shout out that I know where Patrick is, but I keep it inside.

"Sides, Pony, even I didn't think you'd be dumb enough to stab yourself with a knitting needle." His brow shoots up and I punch him in the arm.

"Very funny." I pull in to Lorraine's Diner.

Lorraine is one of those non-descript diners filled with blue-haired ladies, red-jawed truckers and occasional families and college kids escaping to the farthest point away from 'cool' that they can reach within a 20-km radius.

I like it because it gives me the same opportunity for people watching as Lucky's, without making me fear that I'm going to end up collateral damage in a bar fight, or the lead story on the 6:00 news.

" _Local writer beaten to death by local boozehound, Bubba."_

Inside the usual early bird set has left, leaving plenty of tables to choose from. The air smelled like bacon grease and fried eggs.

Soda picks a booth closest to the big bay window that looks out onto a small patch of grass, a highway and beyond that the mountains, he appreciates a good view. Years ago, he had to sit at the back-corner table with his back against the wall so that he could observe everyone and everything, protecting himself from surprises.

Now he's right in the open, and I know that if Soda could, he would open the window and let the wind blow through his hair and beard. It feels great getting my brother back.

A large man in a green windbreaker and black baseball cap walks past us and for a second he looks so much like Darry that my head bobbles a double take. Man, I wish Darry was here.

Darry should be here. He's Soda's brother and Patrick's uncle just as much as I am. When Soda first told us about Patrick, it was Darry who spent hours trying to speak to army bureaucrats trying to find out how we could bring Patrick and his mother to the States.

Their response: "son, if we send out a search party looking for every child _allegedly_ fathered by one of our boys we'd be in Vietnam until the cows came home."

We didn't know where Patrick was or even if he was still alive and that killed us almost as much as it killed Soda. I should have told Darry. Darry would know what to do and say, he's always good in these high emotional moments because he's so discreet and calm. I used to think he was robotic and cold, the way he hardly ever displayed emotions, the way his face would remain and impassive steel trap when he gave or received bad news; but now with my emotions and nerves running high, I need his cool counterbalance.

But everything just happened so fast, I didn't even think. Besides, this was Soda's kid, I didn't want everyone to know about Patrick before his own father did.

Itching his beard, Soda folds both legs under him and turns to me, "everything okay, Pony?" I look down and realize my knuckles are turning Mom-sees-blood-white. I let go of the table.

"I'm okay," and I give him such a corned raised grin I want to punch my own lights out. Jesus, am I bad at this. Soda's eyes narrow, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. He puts his hands on my forearms, "you know Pone, I forgot to say for a lightweight you sure did okay for yourself last night." He lets out a light chuckle so empty I could walk through it.

My smile becomes tight. I know exactly what Soda is doing. He's thinking that I'm going to confront him again, maybe this time with Darry, about his cocaine binge and he wants throw a few pre-emptive punches, throw me off guard, make me question my standing to ever question him.

When he's on the defensive he's not afraid to play dirty.

He's a poker play, you raise cocaine and he'll raise that night you got so drunk he had to drag your semi-conscious carcass home and hide you from Darry's bellowing wrath. His ace in the hole is cleaning up the vomit that _just_ missed the toilet bowl.

Soda looks away from me and at a kid who looks around ten or so, is putting a nickel into the claw machine, the one bit of "technology" at the otherwise bare bone eatery.

He bites his lip, his eyes possessed with pain, "it's been ten years…"

He says nothing else. He doesn't need to.

We sit silently, neither of us saying a word for about 30 seconds. A waitress with grey perm and pink hairnet is cleaning the table adjacent to our own, a middle age couple is counting out coins, a little girl is crying out that she wants the blue balloon, not the red one. Out of the corner of my eye I see a man tie up a dog to a post; the dog running in circles around his owner, his tail wagging.

Soda and I though, are statues.

I'm about to shout out that Patrick is in Oklahoma, when Soda breaks through my thoughts. "I had a nightmare last night."

My eyes widen, "I thought you don't really have nightmares that often?" Once again, my heart sinks thinking about my brother's demons keeping him up a night.

Soda shrugs, "yeah, usually they're not too bad, but last night was a doozy." He's trying to laugh, but he can only staple the air with a gruff 'ha.'

I look into his eyes, "you wanna talk about it?"

For a second, he leans in closer to me, but in the last moment he pulls away, his back sinking into the booth, "thanks Pone," he gives me a half smile and glides his fingers down the menu. "I got to deal with this on my own."

He opens his mouth and I know what he's going to say, "don't," I say firmly. But Soda always needs to get in the last word, "I'm so sorry, Pone."

He's talking about the night he had a night terror and attacked me. It was a year after he came back, Darry and I still didn't know about Patrick. Soda, has never fully forgiven himself, even though I forgave him right away. But his eyes still plead with me and I know that for him, even after all we shared in the years since, it will always be that night.

Mom wasn't the only Curtis who could never forgive themselves.

I sigh, knowing there is nothing I can do at this point. There are times when I wish could toss _him_ against the wall and just scream that we love him and that we have all forgiven him and that only a selfish prick would continue punish himself. But Soda has mastered the art of self flagellation.

I don't say anything. I only hope that one day my brother will forgive himself.

Our waitress, Connie,of the grey perm and pink hairnet. Soda wants a milkshake. He rubs his stomach and licks his lips, "banana chocolate, that sounds right up my alley."

"Sure does, monkey man," I grin.

Soda rolls his eyes, "well you got the dad jokes down pat," but he's smiling.

In a tone more suitable for Alcatraz than a cheap diner, Connie shakes her head and with a cantankerous tone tells us, "read the sign! We don't serve milkshakes until 11:30 and it's only 10:45, there!" she barks, tapping on her wrist watch, daring us to contradict Father Time.

Clearly customer service is not their strong suit here.

Anger rises through me. My throat tightens and my brow narrows. If Connie wants grumpy, I can give her grumpy. All my brother wants is a lousy milkshake. He wanted for so little: a family and a fucking milkshake.

I look up at Connie and in my best southern drawl, hoping that Connie will be as taken in by my accent as Mrs. Phoenix. I muse, "we understand that ma'am, and really, we don't want to inconvenience you at all, but my brother, he drove all the way from Oklahoma, and when I told him how good your homespun milkshakes were, why, he insisted that we stop here, before he has to go _home_." I puncture the last word, making it sound as if Soda is going to his eternal home if he doesn't get his milkshake. For good measure, I wipe my eye and sigh.

I feel a bit guilty over the length I'm willing to go to get my brother a milkshake.

Soda picks up on my cue, and helpfully coughs, giving Connie a pitiful grin. A few years ago, Soda would have no problem convincing someone he was knocking on heaven's door.

 _Jesus_ , _well we're in all the way now._

I can just see the headline: "Man nursed back from sure death thanks to Lorraine's milkshakes." There's a picture of Soda with his thumb raised, the caption under his photo, " _the key is extra whipped cream_ " a picture of Connie staring glumly, her arms crossed, pointing to a clock set on 10:45 _"it wasn't time!_ " and a picture of me, " _Lorraine's milkshakes are darn nabbit good Y'all come to Lorraine, ya hear?" T_ he dog; _"arf, arf!"_

"Mmm, I'll make an exception for you hon, just once." She's talking to me, but looking at Soda, who even though he's not saying anything, is oozing charm.

"Much obliged ma'am" Glory. I sounded like a Hee-Haw reject. She rolls her eyes at me, but she gives a slight smile to Soda.

I tip my head, and Soda can barely sit up. His face turns red and chuckles hack through his body.

"Jesus, Pone, and I thought my accent was thick. You're about to go shitting out _Dixie_ , ain't you?"

He shoots me a smirk, and I shrug my shoulders. Gulping down his milkshake he pats my arm, "this hits the spot, thanks."

I'm too nervous to eat. I haven't eaten anything since last night at Lucky's. Booze, even in moderation, still makes me queasy.

I make sure to leave Connie an extra-large tip.

* * *

It's funny how good news and bad news has the same effect on my nervous system. This was good news that Patrick was alive and in Oklahoma. But I knew that my brother didn't have much a claim to his son, he and Patrick's mother ended on bad terms. What if Anna didn't want Patrick to see Soda? What if Patrick didn't want to see his dad? Was he angry at Soda? I'm hoping that Soda knowing his son is okay will be enough. But what if it wasn't? How cruel would it be to tell Soda that his son is only a few hours away, but that he can't see him. That would kill Soda. I really thought so, that would kill my brother.

But I had no choice, I had to tell my brother about Patrick, I _wanted_ to tell my brother about Patrick, I just hope I was doing the right thing by both of them.

We're in the car, still in the parking lot. Soda is still turning the radio dial, he stops as the opening notes of Three Dog Night's _"Joy to the World"_ comes on.

"Jeremiah was a bullfrog," Soda belts out, pounding his hand against the console. "Come on Pone, join in man!" He pounds my back almost as hard as he pounded the console.

But before Jeremiah can help me drink my wine, words gush out as if there is a geyser deep within me.

"Patrick is in Oklahoma City."

" _I throw away the cars, the bars and the war_ " Soda snaps down on the word war, slamming his fist against the dashboard.

"Yeah! All right man!"

He turns to me, still swaying from side to side in time with the music, "Uncle Pat?..."

I shake my head, and I've been talking about Aimee about this moment since last night, and I've waiting for this moment for my brother for years, but right now, I can't speak. I don't know where I get the strength to shake my head no, because my entire body feels stiff.

A tiny sound comes out of Soda's mouth and his face lights up, his mouth opens and then closes again as if he's trying to physically digest the words I have just told him.

"Patrick." He says his son's name with such tenderness that I can feel something light up within me.

I'm crying. I can't help it. I didn't expect to start crying, but then I see a tiny bit of my brother's soul flick from behind the door, and my eyes well up with tears.

"Yeah, man," My hands shaking I pull out the two-month old article from my back pocket.

" _Vietnamese Refugees Settle New Lives in Oklahoma"_ I read, my voice shaking almost as much as my hands.

Soda doesn't say anything, and at first, I think he's in shock. "So, remember Benny? Well, he wrote an article on Vietnamese refugees living in Oklahoma City for his paper, Randy got a copy of it and gave it to me, and _look_ ,"

I point to the caption, " _Patrick Nguyen, age nine, lives in Oklahoma City with his mother Anna Nguyen. His father was a U.S. soldier from Tulsa stationed near Saigon. Patrick has never met his father."_

Then Soda does something I don't expect, he laughs. No, he doesn't laugh, he _howls_. A loon laugh shoots out of mouth; his arms, his legs and eventually his entire body, shakes like a wet dog. His eyes are wet from laughing so hard and his face is red. He can't sit up and he grabs his torso and yowls with laughter, as he sinks to the ground, his head bobbing right next to the glove compartment. He hiccups and starts coughing before letting out a gush of laughter that booms out and I feel the car almost shake; years of anger, hurt, self-hatred and grief explode from inside.

"You okay?" I'm afraid he's having a breakdown and I silently scold myself for not having Mary or Darry here.

Soda calms down and he shoots me the most beatific smile I have ever seen, "I love you, Pony. You gave me my kid back." His voice croaks with emotion.

The lump in my throat grows and I don't know what to say, but Soda, he sits up and leans into me, our foreheads touch, "thank you, thank you, thank you." We're 26 and 29. I have a large build, and a grizzled beard; Soda has a hard cast to him; we look like tough guys, maybe even the type of guys who would patronize Lucky's, yet here we are sitting in my car, leaning so close into each other that once again our eyelashes almost tickle.

I love this man so much that even though my empty stomach rumbles with hunger I am so full I can burst open with overwhelming love that could rocket us to the moon. I am in this moment, completely and utterly possessed with love. I haven't felt this way since I first held my daughter, and now, I'm almost shaking. It's as if this love and release that I feel has a body of its own, pushing and pulling me.

I'm being carried away in the moment; and the reality: that Soda might never get to meet Patrick, cannot get through my mind, not now. In a few hours I will probably begin to feel nervous again, but now, all I feel is inescapable joy for my brother.

It's a joy which feels as tall as the mountains and as bright as the sun, but so private that I only share it with Soda.

Soda sees me shaking and he grabs a hold of my arms, with tears running down cheeks he keeps on telling me, "thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Don't thank me," I laugh, "thank Randy and Benny, they're the ones who came across him."

Soda beams, "yeah, I'm gonna thank both of those guys. But you were here for me from the beginning. You, Mary and Darry. I really am lucky."

I take a deep breath and I feel as if I just ran the Boston Marathon, and I'm wondering if I'm as out of breath as Soda, who is still red and shallowed breath. Soda holds me tighter, pressing his hands into my arms, with tears running down his cheeks (my cheeks? Our cheeks? I cannot tell anymore, we're twins again), he keeps on telling me "thank you, thank you, thank you."

And we sit there, together.

"Do you want to see a picture of him?" The tears have stopped and we're just sitting in my car, as if trying to wade in the fact that my brother's kid is alive and safe and only a few hours away.

I feel this overwhelming happiness pull through me like a tide. This was really happening.

Soda pounces, "Yes!" I reopen up the newspaper article. The photo quality isn't great, the focus of the picture is a large community room with chairs, couches and a poster with basic English sentences. The poster is thumbtacked to a wall divider, and peeking out from the divider is a blonde kid, with a turtleneck and plaid pants on.

I point out Patrick, and back down the caption I read out to him before. "There," I grin. But Soda isn't looking at me, he grab the article out of my hand and leans into the photo, pressing it so close to his eyes that the top half of the article touches his forehead. He drinks it in.

"Patrick. My son…" he mutters to himself.

He grins at the photo, and even though you can only see part of my nephew in the photo, I can tell you this: he has his Dad's grin.

* * *

 _Joy to the world_  
 _All the boys and girls now_  
 _Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea_  
 _Joy to you and me_

* * *

 ** _A/N: S.E. Hinton owns the Outsiders. "Joy to the World" is by Three Dog Night._**

 ** _Hold Tight was originally composed by Sidney Bechet and Leonard Ware._**

 ** _Hee-Haw was a T.V. variety show_**

 _ **THANK you for the bottom of my heart to everyone who reads/reviews this story, it means so much to me that people are taking time to read what I write and follow this family on their journeys.** _

_ETA: made a few minor changes (12-26-17)_


	12. Chapter 12

**It's been a while, hasn't it?! I hope the action isn't moving too slow with this story. To everyone who is reading my adventures of the Curtis family, I truly appreciate each and every one of you! Hope you enjoy this latest installment.**

* * *

"It was one of Santa's reindeer, Karen!" my four year old son leans over his baby brother and shouts in his sister's face.

Before I can reprimand him for yelling, Karen shoots back, her arms crossed but her face nonplussed "Why would Santa's reindeer be in Canada, C.D.?" I put down my mug of now lukewarm coffee and raise an eyebrow at my husband, interested to hear the explanation our son comes up with.

Although Darrel's eyes are laser focused on the miles of traffic ahead of him, the corner of his mouth turns into a slight smile as he leans his head back ever so slightly to catch C.D.'s response.

"They're on vacation," C.D. tells us, like it's the most obvious answer in the entire world. I gotta admit, I'm mildly disappointed in the logic of the answer. C.D. is only four but his mind is something else. He can come up with the most bizarre and imaginative theories.

 _Recently he's convinced the Easter Bunny used to work for Santa but they had a falling out and now they are mortal enemies._

 _When his father asked him why, C.D shrugged, "the reindeer made fun of him."_

" _Even Rudolph, with that big ol' red nose of his? He was makin' fun of the Easter Bunny?"_

 _"Rudolph is the **worst**." C.D. tells us, shaking his head with the disgust. _

_Darrel put his hand over his mouth and shook his head, while I bit my lip to keep from laughing._

 _C.D. only shook his head and said in an ominous tone, "reindeers hate bunnies. It goes back forever. It's sad." He said this with such conviction that I was this close to picking up one of World Book Encyclopedia's Darrel keeps in his home office to find out why rabbits and reindeer don't get along with each other._

Karen scrunches up her nose, "it wasn't a reindeer C.D. it was an antelope, right, Daddy?" I glance through the rearview mirror and give my daughter a soft smile. Karen is smart, but C.D. is gifted. I sympathize, my younger brother, Edwin, was a bonafide genius. I.Q. 175. He taught himself how to read at 3 ½ while I was a late bloomer, not really 'reading' until the second grade.

It's hard to be in your brother's shadow. It's harder for Karen though, since C.D. is only a year younger than she is. I think it's going to be good for Karen when she starts school, hopefully finding a place where she can shine away from her brother.

Karen is giving Darrel a look, pleading with him to give her some bread crumbs, to tell her that for once, she's right and her brother is wrong about something.

Darrel grins and he sticks his chin the air, "actually y'all are both wrong. That's wasn't an antelope _or_ a reindeer it was _mule deer_."

I give Darrel and incredulous look, but he shrugs, "read the " _Wildlife of British Columbia_ " brochure when I was down in the lobby paying the bill."

Karen shrugs and happily goes back to looking out the window as we pull into the airport parking lot. C.D. is not ready to surrender, he crosses his arms, but before he can say anything Darrel slams on the brake, turning the steering wheel sharply, causing the tires to squeak and all of us, except Billy snug in his car seat, to jolt up.

I quickly turn back, making sure the kids are okay. C.D. waves at me. Of course, everyone has their seatbelt on.

" _Sonofabitch,"_ he mutters under his breath, shooting daggers at the driver of the tan Oldsmobile who cut us off. If it was just the two of us, Darrel would be swearing a blue streak; but with the kids in the car, he's reigned in.

C.D's eyes grow big and he crows "you swore Daddy! That's _real_ bad!"

Darrel cringes, "you're right son, I shouldn't have said a bad word. I'm sorry C.D."

To me he mutters, "how the heck does that boy hear _everything_? _Jesus."_

I'm not surprised C.D. overheard; Darrel is many things, quiet is not one of them. Even when he tries to speak in a low voice it still sounds like he's using a megaphone. He even _whispers_ loudly.

Darrel glances back at Karen, making sure she didn't hear him swear, but Karen is focused solely on watching a German Shepard hop out of the Oldsmobile. Both Karen and C.D. have been pressuring us to buy them a dog. Spending a week with Pony and Aimee and their puppies has only convinced them that it is an absolute imperative that they get a puppy NOW.

" _It don't even have to be cute," Karen told us over the continental breakfast at the hotel this morning, "we would love it anyways."_

" _That's very commendable of you, honey," I say with smirk._

" _Not me! I don't want no ugly dog." piped up her brother._

I look through the review mirror at the smug grin spreading across my son's tiny face.

Not only was Daddy caught swearing, but Daddy had to apologize; a twofer. I could see the wheels in his head turn as tries to figure out how to use this to his advantage.

But before C.D. has a chance to say anything, the tables quickly turn, Darrel gives our son a sharp look. "Carlson! You open up another piece of chocolate and then you'll really see Daddy get mad. What did I tell you 'bout eating in the rental?"

"Don't."

"Yup, and I know those of ears of yours work just fine, so give Mommy the chocolate, you'll get it back _if_ you decide to behave, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Carlson grumbles, but hands me the chocolate. I have no idea where to put it, so I stuff it in the front of Billy's diaper bag that I'm using as a footrest.

"I don't know why Aimee decided to give _our_ kids a bag full of candy before we put them on a flight, they're hyper enough as it is," Darrel whispered to me.

While Darrel helps unload the kids and the luggage, yelling at C.D. to hold his sister's hand and not run off, I look through the rearview window at my baby boy who gives me the cutest grin, his chubby cheeks inflating like balloons.

I reach back and tickle his toes, eliciting even more giggles from Billy, who I think may be the happiest baby in the entire world.

I take a sip of my coffee. It's ice cold.

* * *

I splash the cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Of course, Auntie Flo is gonna decide to come over for a visit. A few hours after I had that dream about carrying Soda's baby, I get my period.

Talk about being fucked up the ass.

It ain't like I expected to be pregnant this month, although God knows we had sex enough times. We had sex every single night (and several times a day!) during my fertile period, and it still didn't take.

If a lot of sex with a hot man was all you needed to get knocked up, I'd be pregnant with septuplets, sharing the cover of the National Enquirer with some farmer's wife from Tacoma who got abducted by space aliens.

But it just feels like a cruel cosmic joke to wake up from _that_ dream only to find a small dot of blood lining my panties, puncturing my heart. Yeah, I know I sound a bit dramatic, but month after month of this shit is hard to take. It's so _fucking_ hard.

I wish I coulda stayed tangled up in the warm blankets forever, sleeping away my sorrow.

But I figure the whole bleeding from my vajayay all over my in-laws comforter ain't exactly going to endear me to them, so I forced myself out of bed and into the guest bathroom.

Aimee redid the entire bathroom for us. I swear, that girl is the biggest sweetheart. Pony did _good_.

She bought brand new towels that still had that clean new towel smell, fresh bars of soap, new bottles of mouthwash (one for each of us), _and_ the expensive _quilted_ toilet paper.

"Only the best for your ass, baby," I smirked at Soda that first night when we were putting our toothbrushes away.

"Yeah," Soda grinned and wiggled his cute ass in my face. I could tell some smart ass remark was coming for me; when turned toward me and with a thoughtful glance at the peach and sea blue towels hanging on the rack behind me, said "Aims really went all out, didn't she? We oughta do something real nice for her and Pony."

I nodded. Soda and me love to entertain people, but we ain't exactly running a Howard Johnson over at our place. My baby can barely remember to do his own laundry, let alone buy new linens, and after a day at the salon, I'm too tired to give a shit.

 _One time, after we first moved back to Tulsa one of our old buddies was dropped in for a surprise visit. Me and Dave were eating Raisin Bran in the kitchen, when in walks Soda, naked as the day the doctor pulled him out of his mama slapped his ass._

" _You forgettin' something there?" I muse. Dave just looks up and gives Soda a wave, still holding on to Soda's Mickey Mouse cowboy spoon and goes back eating. Dave's a cool cat._

 _Soda runs his hand through his long, wavy hair; scratching his head, his eyes rise up, before he looks down at his naked body and just grins, "oh hey Mary, hey Dave, guess I forgot to get dressed." He shrugs and sits down at the kitchen table, pouring himself a big bowl of cereal, flashing me the cheesiest grin I'd ever seen._

" _Just make sure you keep your serving spoon to yourself, streaker man." I whisper to him._

 _He bursts out laughing, his laughter is full, sweet and contagious. I start cracking up and then Dave laughs. The three of us are laughing so hard it sounds like we're getting high. Nah, we ain't high, we're just with Soda Curtis._

 _I can't stop grinning right back at him._

Now I can't stop lookin' at my reflection in the mirror. My face is blank and if you don't know me, I look serious and calm, so, not like me at all. But inside, I feel my body tighten up, my uterus throbs.

You'd think after a year I'd be used to this by now. But it still kills me. I look around for a tampon. Turns out Aimee only has maxi pads. I groan, the pads are so bulky, makes me feel like I have one of 'em adult diapers on.

I adjust my panties and wash my hands, inhaling the scent of Irish Spring.

I run my soapy fingers across my tats. I remember the first tattoo I ever got, I had a such a bad panic attack, they almost called the paramedics; course, the fact that the guy giving me that tattoo was some ex-con friend of my brother who learned how to tat in prison probably didn't help.

Now, I have more of my body covered with tattoos than not. I got use to the needle.

Each of my tattoos tells a story. I got my first tattoos to cover the spot my ex bruised. My tattoos give me strength, plus they make me look sexy and tough. They're my shield, while as poor Soda knows, my tongue is my sword.

But not even my beautiful tats can keep me from feeling the emptiness.

* * *

"Where is it?! I don't got my Stretch Armstrong!" My son's voice bellows through the airport and I give an apologetic nod at an elderly Indian woman in a Sari who glances up from her newspaper and at my son, her knotted, arthritic hand resting on top of a cane.

Another woman in a business suit looks at us to see what all the fuss is about.

Great, you'd think we'd be able to have one day without one of my kids starting a scene in public. Is that too much to ask for? Yes, apparently the answer to that eternal question is yes.

C.D. is going through his _Tom & Jerry_ backpack; his books, snacks, including the candy I gave back to him because he managed to listen to me all through the airport check in, are sprawled across the seats.

I grab him by the shoulders and shake, maybe a bit too hard, but I'm not a fan of my children starting scenes in public, they know better than that.

I get right into his face and in my 'mom voice' which manages to be low in volume but, hopefully, high in impact; tell him to stop acting up.

"Daddy packed everything in his suitcase, C.D."

"But I want it now!" C.D. looks like he's about one minute away from a public meltdown, and two minutes away from a quick pat on the behind and time out.

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it. Your Stretch Armstrong will be there to meet you when we get back home." I cross my fingers hoping that Darrel really did pack Stretch Armstrong in his suitcase and it's not lying under the hotel bed.

C.D. looks around; the elderly woman has put down her newspaper and is now watching me try to control my son.

"'Scuse me, lady, do you know you got paint on your forehead?!" C.D. cries out. He's inherited his father's voice.

I feel my forehead turn red.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry" I say quickly, mortified that my son might have offended her. There really aren't a lot of people of color or from other countries in our neighborhood or at C.D.'s preschool.

"Shush," I say to him a low voice.

Before I can shut him up, my son continues to ask her questions.

"Does your dot give you magical powers? Can you help me find my Stretch Armstrong? You _should_." C.D. said expectantly. I put my hand on top of C.D.'s mouth and I can feel his mouth move and his body tries to squirm out from under me.

I'm about to yank him into a corner to give him a good talking too, when to my surprise, the lady, bursts out laughing. For a tiny, elderly woman, her laugh is robust, filling the wide open space of the terminal.

I instantly relax, grateful that she is kindhearted enough not to take offense to my son thinking her bindi was a genie's lamp or a splotch of paint.

I smile and her and shrug my shoulders, "kids," I shake my head.

Her husband walks over to her, an elderly man with deep brown skin and a snow white hair. She speaks to him in what I think is Hindi, in between their rapid talk, I hear 'Stretch Armstrong.'

The man walks up to my son, and C.D. tightens his grip around my waste, digging his fingernails into my hips, wrapping his legs around my own.

"Excuse me" the gentleman says in a very thick accent, which makes him a bit hard to understand, "I believe you are looking for Mr. Stretch Armstrong? I just happen to be Mr. Stretch Armstrong."

C.D. drops his arms around my waste and gives the man a quizzical look, "you don't look nothing like Stretch Armstrong."

The man shrugs his shoulders, "see for yourself," and he contorts his upper body, bending his back like it's a piece of a rubber, flipping his legs over his head, so his head looks as if it is resting between his feet.

C.D.'s mouth drops open and truthfully, so does mine. A small crowd gathers to watch a 70 year old man twist and contort his body like, well, Stretch Armstrong.

I'm touched that this stranger would go out of his way to entertain my son, even as I cringe at the almost superhuman way he contorts his body.

Is sympathy pain real? Because watching him, _my limbs_ feel they are going to be sore for a month.

After the couple leaves for their plane, C.D. tries to imitate the man, pulling his hand behind his head, twisting his legs like a pretzel. When Darrel comes back with our other two children, he just looks at me, "what the hell," he whispers.

I pat his arm, "C.D. met Stretch Armstrong." He gives me a questioning glance and shakes his head. Billy, now in my arms, imitates his Dad's head shake.

"Ah! Daddy, Mommy, help!" Without thinking, the two of us turn behind us and see C.D. chase his sister around the row of seats, a marker in his hand. Karen has an orange marker line running down her forehead, and down her cheek.

"Carlson! Stop! What the _hell_ is wrong with you?!" Darrel roars.

Karen runs to me, and sticks her face in my stomach. I rub her head. "It will wash out Karen."

Darrel every bit the star quarterback he was in high school, makes a flying tackle for C.D, and yanks him upwards.

"You want to explain, son, why you're using your sister's face as a coloring book?"

"I was just tryin' to give her magical powers _. Jesus_."

* * *

I can't stop grinnin' at my kid brother. Man, I love him. He bought me my son. For the past decade hardly a week went by when I didn't think of Patrick. Even when I didn't want to think about him, he had a way of crawling through my fucked up mind.

My kid was a ghost, haunting me. Ain't that a fucked up way to think about your flesh and blood? But what else could I call someone who would yank me from a deep sleep, his eyes cutting through me?

No matter how tight I squeezed my own eyes, all I could see was his.

But now my kid was alive and livin' just a few hours away from me. I ain't as religious as my wife is, but I closed my eyes, and to the God who thought it was a swell idea to steal our parents when Pony was thirteen, I say with my heart full of gratitude and amazement, 'thank you.'

Pony offers to take me back to his place, but I need time to process everything. It's crazy how your entire soul feel like it's shifted in one moment.

I ain't the same person I was when my woman woke me up this morning. I don't know who I am right now, but I ain't ever gonna be the same.

"Shit, Pone, this is all too wild." I grin so hard, my teeth hurt and at the same time, I've never felt better in my life.

"I feel like I'm one of 'em characters on The Young and Restless," referring to the show my wife likes to torture me with.

" _Mary, you gunnin' to send me to the insane asylum?"_

 _Mary just smirks, "if it would get you to shut up while I'm tryin' to watch my show, I'll grab the butterfly net myself. 'Sides, like they'd take_ _ **your**_ _crazy ass anyways."_

Mary. Oh, man, she is gonna be stoked to find out about Patrick. I'm so excited 'bout telling her, I can hardly sit still, my legs bounce up and down, my ankles banging against the seat.

Pony parks his Pinto near the side of the road; damn, when I get money the first thing I'm doin' is buying him a good car. He deserves the best. Maybe I'll talk to Mary about swapin' my truck for his car. I'd do it right now, 'cept I don't think his car would survive the trip back home without some major work.

Can't have nothin' happen to Patrick's dad and step mama.

Holy shit. I can't believe this is happenin. Aw man, I bet Patrick would love to drive the truck.

 _Dad taught me how to drive when I was ten or eleven, after he caught me sneakin' out twice to try to take his 1951 Ford on a little spin._

 _The first time he caught me, he walloped me so hard I could hardly sit down the rest of the night. The second time, he sighed and grinned. "Pepsi-Cola, what the hell am I gonna to do with ya? Well, you might as well learn to do it right. Can't have a Curtis who don't know how to drive ol' Red. That'd be damn embarrassing."_

 _Without mom or my brothers knowing, we held secret lessons. I still remember the feel of the phonebook on my ass, as Dad leaned over me, his meaty paws steading my shoulders, his tobacco breath choking the air._

 _Fuck, I miss him._

"You want me to step out and give you a few minutes?" he has his hand on the inside door handle, ready to step out of his car to give me privacy.

I think about my brother and how over the years he's leaped over me, not just in height and weight, but everything. I need him far more than he's ever needed me.

I shoot him a wide grin and yank that brilliant motherfucker towards me, "shit, Pony, _you_ ain't goin' nowhere. I _need_ you with me, man."

I look down at the picture of my son. My son. Oh, holy shit. This was really happenin'. I feel like I'm about to just explode with emotions. It don't matter if we're sitting in Pony's cramped ass car or in the middle of Grand Canyon, my emotions feel too big to be contained.

"Does Darry know?"

Pony shakes his head, "nah, just me and Aimee."

I pound my kid brother's shoulder, "can you imagine his face when we tell him about Patrick? I bet he's gonna want to teach Patrick how to throw a spiral, course he's my kid, so he probably don't have any talent for sports."

I chuckle, imagine Darry teaching my kid all of the big plays that made him top shit back in high school.

Pony opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but shuts it, and looks down at his seat. Before looking up at me with a slight smile.

I look at Pone, I ain't smart, fuck knows I'm bringin' down the IQ for the entire state, but I was right about one thing. Pony Curtis always gives me everything I need.

Now I need to share my good news with the person who makes my life worth living, my wife.

* * *

I can practically feel the judgmental stares from the other passengers as Darrel and I board the plane with three young children. I want to tell them to mind their own business, that my children are well behaved, but I can probably only say that about two of them.

We strap the kids into the three middle seats of a five seat row, Darrel flanking the left end, me the right.

"C.D. you kick the back of the seat one more time and Daddy's gonna spank your as… butt."

"C.D! Stop that! Your brother is not Stretch Armstrong, stop pullin' on his arm."

"C.D., _enough is enough_. I told you, Daddy packed your doll in his suitcase."

"Fine, it's not a doll, it's an action figure."

"Karen, you don't have to eat the food, but don't pick at it."

"Yes, I'd rather have McDonalds too Karen, but this is what they're serving us."

"Yes, we'll get McDonalds when we get home."

"Yes! You can get a vanilla milkshake."

"C.D., sweetie, are you going to get sick?"

"It's okay baby, we'll be home soon."

"Excuse me, Stewardess, we need another air sick bag."

* * *

You know that feelin' you get when everyone is keeping a secret and you're in the dark, blind as Helen Keller? Well, that's how I felt while I was waiting for Pony and Soda.

"What are the guys up too?" I ask Aimee.

Aimee turns pale and her cheeks turn red. "They're at breakfast," she says evenly.

Well, no shit. 'Cept this one long ass breakfast.

I may be a high school dropout, but I'm smart and I know that there is something going on beyond our hubbies stuffing their faces with waffles.

If it were anyone else, I'd be on their ass, pushing them to tell me what's going on. But, like I say, Aimee is sweet, I don't wanna start anything with her. Besides, I'm kinda a bitch when I get my period.

So, I just go back to watching T.V., feeling the cotton pad against my cooch.

* * *

Pone once again opens the door for me, and like I have for the past decade, I follow his lead. I run towards Mary, who sitting in an arm chair, the light framing her wild, dyed midnight black hair like a halo. Pony gives a subtle nod to Aimee and the two of them move into their bedroom, closing the door behind them to give us privacy.

"They found Patrick! He's alive, he's okay. He's in Oklahoma City." I'm completely out of breath and I hope she can understand me, because I'm so delirious with excitement, I don't think I can talk anymore.

"What?!" Mary sits straight up, her eyes bugged open.

I thrust the newspaper article in front of her face. I point to my son. _My son. OH SHIT!_

She jumps on top of me, yanking me down. For a woman who hardly weighs more than mite, she sure knows how to tackle. She's on top of me, a few inches away from my face, tears are streaming down her sunken cheeks, her eyes are bursting with joy, a big grin over takes her face.

She is my mirror image.

The two of us just laugh and cry and every now and then, remember to breath.

The whole time I press my arm against the small of her back, my hand grippin' onto the picture of my kiddo.

I ain't never lettin' either of them go.

* * *

We turn the corner, the kids, full of chicken nuggets and vanilla milkshakes, are fast asleep in the backseat. I'm getting tired myself, I can't wait to just hit the hay. I don't think I can even change into my nightgown.

"The kids did pretty good on the plane," Darrel says with pride. He looks back at C.D., and gives our eldest son a half-hearted grin, "poor kid, for such a little guy he sure can upchuck with the best of 'em."

I laugh, "thanks for cleaning him up, and Billy, I really appreciate it."

Darrel shrugs, "course I'm going to clean them up after them, they're my kids." There is a slight hurt tone to his voice, but I only smile at him.

Darrel is a great husband, a wonderful father and the best provider I could ask for, but he doesn't exactly shine when it comes to changing dirty diapers or vomit drenched four year olds. He's getting better though. Maybe not where he should be, but better.

A police car speeds by us, the sirens blasting, the red and blue lights flashing through the midnight air.

Our current neighborhood, unlike the one we grew up in, doesn't usually get midnight visits from the cops.

I sure hope it's nothing serious; we have a few elderly couples in our neighborhood.

I'm about to ask Darrel if he packed the Stretch Armstrong _action figure_ when Darrel, stops the car.

"Catherine," Darrel say in a low voice. Darrel rarely call me by my full name, and I look up.

The police cars are heading right towards our house.

* * *

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **I SO wanted the kids to have Happy Meals, but those didn't come out until 1979. Poor C.D and Karen! ;)**

 **Thank you once again for your R &Rs. :)**


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N: What? What is it? A new chapter?! I'm SO sorry that it took me so long to update. I wish I could say that this chapter is worth the wait, but it's not. But after having some massive writing block and just being stuck and overwhelmed by this chapter, I'm glad to have something published. As always I truly appreciate your patience.**_

* * *

There's a naked man running across our yard. _Jesus Christ!_ There is a naked man running across _my_ yard. You've got to be fucking kidding me. Taking a deep breath, I inhale the fried-sodium scent of chicken nuggets and limp fries that permeate through every surface of our brand-new Country Squire. But sodium clogged vents notwithstanding, it feels damn good to be driving my own car again and not a rental.

You know, until the naked guy.

"Looks like C.D. found a kindred spirit," Cathy nudges me, I groan.

"God, remember Aunt Tabby? I thought she have a heart attack" I shake my head, hiding the small grin that sneaks up on my face with my forearm, not that I can hide my grin from Cathy.

We look at our second born, now sound asleep, though the rearview mirror. Our eyes meet and even in the darkened car, her eyes sparkle with humor. "I thought you were going to have the heart attack," Cathy said brightly.

Last year, my oldest son discovered spaceships, dump trucks and his penis. But did he want to show off the huge rocket playhouse that calloused and splintered my hand until I was bleedin' like Jesus at Calvary? Hell no. He wanted to show off _his_ rocket to the entire world.

 _Cathy's Great-Aunt Rita had passed away and we gathered for the post-funeral get together at Rita's sister Tabitha's house. Aunt Tabby, all eighty three years of her, sat forlornly on the rose colored Victorian style sofa, carefully stirring a cup of black tea, her ramrod posture bent with grief and the early stages of osteoporosis. The scent of moth balls, aged perfume and tuna casseroles crawls out of the wallpaper which looked like it hadn't been changed since 1920._

 _Aunt Tabby was old money. Very old money._

 _My then three year old son, in a blue blazer, blue pants and navy blue tie, his first 'real suit, just like Daddy' walks up to her and in a surprisingly somber voice asks his octogenarian aunt, " hi Aunt Tabby, you wanna see my willy?"_

 _Before I could jump in and stop him he pulls down his pants._

 _I'd expected to give my condolence to Tabitha on the passing of her sister, not for my son flashing his penis two inches from her tea cup._

 _I pull my son to the corner, and some random Uncle or someone has to come over to offer me a little turkey sandwich, and damn if I'm not starving, not having eaten anything since breakfast._

 _The turkey sandwich ended up being one of those deals with a microscopic amount of meat but ten pounds of vegetables. Lettuce and tomatoes bond to my teeth like polident and there I am in a house that looks like a life sized dollhouse giving my son a lecture about his penis at the funeral of an old lady who probably never saw one her entire life._

 _After my lecture C.D. walks to middle of the living room and yells "my willy is private Aunt Tabby! You can't look!"_

 _A merciful God would have struck me dead right there._

I look at the man, although I can't make much out except that he's buck naked and seems to be dragging something behind him.

"Looks like a missing screw ain't his only shortcoming," I smirk at my wife.

Cathy holds her hand up, blocking me and leans forward. I don't think it's the crudeness of my remark which stops her, Cathy has a wicked sense of humor lurking underneath her bright grin and serious-sparkling eyes.

"What's wrong?" I lean forward. I'm too curious and confused to be worried, and besides the neighbor's oak is blocking a good chunk of my view.

From my peripheral vision I can see the neighbor's living room and den lights. For all the police sirens it's strangely quiet, although I know the neighbors are watching through their lighted windows. That's the difference between this neighborhood and the one I grew up in. Shit went down all the time on the street I grew up, and you better believe the neighbors all got on their front porch to watch that shit go down. Hell who needs the movies when you can see the Cades beat the crap out of each other in their front yard? Here, the neighbors are just as nosy, but they hide behind their curtains and blinds, watching the action from afar.

The man moves into my field of vision. He's longer running, he's sitting on his knees, and though I can't make out his face, I see his arm gesture wildly towards our bedrooms. The blood in my veins freeze.

In that moment he transforms from a benign nuisance to a threat. I don't like how he is gesturing wildly up at the bedrooms where my family sleeps. I want him gone. Now.

A police officer is walking towards him slowly, flashing a light in his face. The light blinds me even more than the tree.

My jaw clenches. I'm just grateful that the kids are all asleep. If Cathy and kids weren't in the car, if the cops weren't already handling the situation, I'd deal with this nut job myself.

Cathy takes her seatbelt off. She leans forward even more, until her forehead almost touches the windshield, even from her profile I can see her jaw clench, her eyes squint, the muscles of her forehead tighten.

"God no," she whispers and before I can say anything, she jumps out of the car, the seatbelt buckle hitting against the door like a mallet against metal.

The sound wakes up the two oldest children. Karen rubs her eyes, "Daddy, what's going on?" She asks in an agitated, sleepy voice. Reflexively, I lean my body to block her view.

My head spins in a million directions.

"Mommy!" C.D. cries out as Cathy jumps out of the car and before I realize what is going on, he unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door, running towards his mother.

I move on pure adrenaline and reflex. I don't remember what I was feeling, because in that moment I wasn't feeling anything. "Stay in the car," I yell at Karen as I throw open the door and run after my son.

The smooth tar and late-night sky zoom underneath and above me, the lights of the car dim behind me, in front of me, my wife, my son, the crazed man and the sharp red and blue flashes of sirens.

C.D. is fast, especially considering his shoe laces are untied. With one fell swoop I scoop him into my arms from behind. His feet are right where my junk is and he starts kicking me. Hard.

"Damn it Carlson!" I say with a wince, although if it wasn't such a serious situation, I'd be impressed my son can back kick this ferociously.

Cathy runs towards the police officer, "stop! That's my brother!"

* * *

We're in the hospital waiting room, waiting for Cathy's parents, waiting for the Doc to get back to us about Edwin, waiting for some semblance of normalcy in our lives. It never ends does it? We didn't have time to drop the kids off at a babysitter, so they're with us. Cathy holds Billy close to her, her lips touching the top of Billy's hair which is still golden blonde. I know having the kids here are a comfort to Cathy, if only because every second she gets to scold C.D. for kicking Karen's chair, is one less second she worries about her brother.

Me? I feel like the shittiest husband and dad in the entire world.

I'm not good at waiting, or comforting people, which means right now I'm pretty damn useless. I wish I had Soda's ability to soothe or Pony's presence.

I need to be doing something tangible to help Cathy. I wring my too empty hands.

"He's going to be okay, isn't he Darrel." It's an answer, masquerading as a question. To the untrained ear Cathy's voice is even, calm; only I can hear the gasps of air, the too long space between breaths.

And damn if I don't just want to nod and assure her that everything's gonna be hunky dory. But the only movement I'm doing right now is the involuntary shivers that come over me as I think of my brother-in-law thrashing off his blanket, unleashing a torrid of obscenities, gibberish and spit.

I'm torn between a desire to comfort and protect my wife and my need to be honest. In the end, honesty wins out by a hair.

I can't lie to Cathy, telling her that everything is okay. I respect her too much to do that to her. I've never lied to her in our five years of marriage. Plus, she's got one hell of a bullshit detector. Instead, my muscles tightening with helplessness, I drape my arms across her too-cold shoulders giving the physical comfort that I can, instead of the emotional assurance she wants. I squeeze hard.

"I hope so." I mean to say it in a reassuring tone, strong and calm; but my voice hasn't cracked this much since I accidently walked in on Mrs. Holden, tits and all, when I was twelve. That wasn't as embarrassing as the erection.

Cathy looks at me, leans towards me and whispers in my ear, "you think he's on acid or angel dust?" She subtly shakes her head _no_ while asking me the question. I know what she wants the answer to be.

Hell ya it looked like he was strung out. But Cathy insists that her brother isn't using, that he hasn't used since middle school. I wish I had her faith.

"No," I tell my first lie to my wife. I'm too tired to feel guilty.

Her voice picks up with speed and intensity, "It's wasn't him Darrel. That guy we saw tonight, that wasn't Winnie. Maybe Soda can talk to him?" There's a slight edge of hopefulness in her voice, and I get it. If Soda could overcome his demons, her brother can too. I know Soda would do it no questions asked, but Soda and Mary's own sobriety is still raw enough that I don't want him mixed up in this, even from the other side.

"Maybe."

"Where's Momma and Daddy? They called Pete, he can watch the kids."

Her voice cracks open with a gush of sorrow, "Damnit! what the hell is wrong with him?" Her shoulders begin to rattle and she is trying everything to keep down her sobs. Her cheeks blush slightly, but she looks at me square in the eyes.

Karen opens her mouth wide, never having heard her mother swear before. Unfortunately, she can't say the same about me.

I stand up and give my wife my hand, "come with me. Karen, watch your brothers and be good."

Karen is sitting on the floor, trying to play patty-cake with Billy, who is more awake than any of us.

"I'm always good," she says her eyes grow even larger. She's not, but I just nod, "I know baby. Watch your brothers."

"Where are we going?" Cathy asked confused.

Hell if I know, but I know that Cathy is on edge and she can't hold it in much longer.

"What about Winnie?" Her voice becomes stronger, "we have to be here. What about the kids? We can't leave them."

"I know honey, just five minutes okay?" I feel like I'm trying to convince her to have sex with me. Not that I ever need to convince her and not that I was ever done in no mere five minutes.

We walk outside hand in hand, past the ambulance loading zone and valet parking. I stop and look at her and her eyes are reflecting pools of fear and what I wouldn't do to drown that fear out of her.

"Come here," my voice is strong and calm now.

That's all I need to say. My wife falls into my arms and begins to sob, harsh, full body sobs as if her entire soul is on fire.

And I hold her. My heart cracks in a million pieces. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her right now and nothing I _can_ do.

She sobs loud, angry, hurt and scared. I ain't a crier, but I almost wanted to tear up, not because of Edwin so much, but for Cathy, because I've been where she's is.

I brush her hair behind her ears and lift her chin up. Our eyes lock. "I'm so proud of you, the way you talked to Edwin. You're the one calmed him down, Cathy."

 _The police have called for an ambulance and Cathy is talking to her brother in a low voice as the police and paramedics try to get him on a gurney. But he won't go. He kicks the blanket off and thrashes wildly at the air, punching at devils and thieves only he sees._

 _My stomach turns to ice. Shit. I got C.D. in my arms, and I don't want him to see this, but I can't leave Cathy. I pull my arm across C.D.'s face, I don't want him to see his uncle like this. C.D flails his own legs and arms._

 _I'm watching a movie, everything is going so slow, yet I can't stop the action from taking place._

 _It takes three cops to hold down my brother-in-law, even though he's a slight man. The biggest cop pulls Edwin's arms behind his back and he lets out an ear piercing scream. But Cathy still talks to him, "shh, it's okay Winnie, Winnie, M &M? Edwin? It's me, honey. It's Cathy. It's your sister. It's Katie. It's okay, baby." _

_They get him on the gurney, put restraints on him and pull him into the ambulance, and then I notice the blood running down his arms and legs, and the chain and swing seat from the swing set I built for my children last summer lying in the yard._

 _The block of ice in my stomach breaks to a violent slush._

"I don't even think Soda could have held it together like you did tonight." I don't tell her that tonight Edwin also reminded me of Soda.

There is a tiny dot of Edwin's blood on my wife's shirt.

She cries into my shoulders, but her crying is softer now, almost tired.

Then she stops. I can feel a shift, she physically straightens up, wipes her tears and her voice calm, "I'm okay, let's go inside, we can't leave the kids for more than a few minutes." She tries to smile.

"C.D. is probably flashing his willy at the nurses' station now," I say with a smirk.

Cathy chuckles. My wife, who is five years younger and who beguiles me with her intoxicating mixture of maturity and naiveté, the girl who had the drive and gumption to leave home at fourteen to support her way through private school and who still blushes when she swears, takes my hand and leads the way inside.

Miracle of miracle, the kids are all behaving. I'm proud of all of 'em , but especially C.D. Guilt pushes through every bone and muscle in my body. I can't believe I let my son see all that.

"I wish I had Stretch Armstrong" C.D. pouts at Cathy when she walks back in the waiting room and I let out an exasperated breath.

"C.D., this really ain't the time. Mommy is very worried about Uncle Edwin."

My son jumps up screaming at me, his own voice shaking, "I KNOW, I KNOW! JESUS CHRIST! Maybe Stretch Armstrong can make Uncle Edwin better. He can do anything."

Normally I wouldn't tolerate this outburst, but tonight we've all been through enough. I let it go and pull my son in for a quick hug. I make a mental note to stop taking the Lord's name in vain in front of my kids. They're sponges.

* * *

The hour and minute hand drag backwards, each cruel minute containing the nauseating fear of the unknown.

It's strange how different everything looks from this perspective. I work part-time at this hospital, my children were born here. But sitting here in the emergency room waiting area, an oxymoron if there ever was one, I look up to the left, expecting to see the clock, because the clock is always on my left hand side, just over the whiteboard we keep track of shifts.

Even the smells are difference. The scent of typewriters, copy paper, pens and French Vanilla coffee exchanged for that hospital smell. Despite all my years here, I never really noticed the scent of Iodoform that saturates my nostrils.

No wonder people hate hospitals. It smells awful.

In the waiting room, the clock is on my right. Everything is topsy-turvy, like a funhouse mirror.

I look around, I know I shouldn't look, that I should give everyone the dignity of privacy, but I can't help it. I like to watch. _Okay_ , spy. There is a woman moaning like electrocuted cat; the homeless looking man, his eyes oozing yellow and red, alcohol and piss wafting from him being helped into a wheelchair. I pull the kids closer to me.

Billy is in my lap, smiling and happy.

Billy was the first baby we planned and the first baby we had no idea what to name.

 _I'm eight months pregnant; we have everything ready for this baby. We know it's going to be a boy, and Darrel already finished the nursery, adding a border of cute little yellow ducks with football helmets on the fresh blue painted walls. I already have my bags packed, just in case this baby, like his older brother decides to pop out four weeks early. Darrel always makes sure that the gas tank on both my car and his truck is ¾ full. We have everything for this baby, except a name. With our first two children, the names were easy: Karen after Darrel's mom, Catherine after me, Carlson after my family, Darrel after Darrel, with this baby, no name seems to fit._

 _Darrel is leaning over his accounting ledger, going over the invoices from his business, receipts cover every inch of the table, a quilt of our family's financial prognosis in carbonated form._

 _Every light in the kitchen is on and the lemons, oranges and bananas in the fruit bowl appear to glow like something out of a science fiction movie._

 _Waddling in my pink fuzzy slippers and bath robe, I feel like the creature out of a science fiction movie, the ever expanding woman. I was never this big or this uncomfortable with my first two kids. My sister Bonnie is convinced I'm having twins._

" _Good Lord! What the hell did Darrel do to you?" She said with disgust as she greeted me at my door step with her new tan, courtesy of a Thanksgiving break to Florida with her thirty-year old boyfriend._ _I greet her with puffy pink eyes courtesy of a lingering cold. My two and half year old yanks on my polka dot maternity dress._ _I feel like a balloon's balloon that's about to burst._

 _Despite not having much money growing up, of having dinners dictated by the whims of coupons and wearing discount store clothes, Momma and Daddy wanted us to have the same opportunities wealthier kids had; we took piano lessons, and I took dance lessons at The Pink Barn for a little bit. It was a lot of fun; now, I don't even think I could fit through those double doors._

" _Remind me Cathy to never get pregnant. That just isn't natural for one baby," she says scrunching up her face and pointing to my stomach._

" _You know Cathy," Mom begins with a sly smile, "twins do run on both sides of our family."_

" _Just isn't natural," Bonnie shakes her head again._

 _But the doctors assure me that I'm having only one baby. One big baby._

 _When I tuck C.D. into bed he grabs my cheeks, "you're unashural!"_

 _A slow smile spreads across my face and I rub the back of his neck, feeling the tight shoulder muscles relax slightly under my wrist. He leans closer to the ledger, and I wonder how many more years before he'll need reading glasses? I don't think he even realizes I'm there, until he turns around and says softly, "what about Edwin Shaynne?"_

 _The lump that forms in my throat feels almost as big and heavy as my stomach. Edwin. Another Edwin. I shake my head._

" _No." I said softly. He moves the yellow kitchen chair next to him, and pats the seat. Slowly, I sit down. I'm so large that even though I feel like I'm at least ten feet away from the table, my stomach presses against the round glass edge, I sigh._

" _I can't Darrel. Please, not Edwin, not Shaynne. I don't want to name this baby after anyone. Not your brothers, not mine. No one. I want to give him a name that belongs only to him. Not Winnie." My voice cracks on the last word, I feel like I swallowed a lemon._

 _Family is everything to Darrel, and I half expect him to object. But I want just baby to be untethered from everyone, including us. Darrel picks up on my mood, knowing that I'm not going to budge and gives me a half smile, "okay, Cathy, a fresh start." He blows eraser smudges off the book._

 _No one believes me, but Darrel has a great sense of humor, although his timing is a bit suspect. His humor reminds me a bit of Pony's except even drier and in my mind, even funnier because you don't expect it._

 _We still don't have a name when I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, going into labor. While I time my contractions Darrel turns to me and in a dry, slightly bemused voice tells me, "you know, Pony was born in the front seat of Dad's car?" I try turn to him and scowl, but the contraction is coming too hard and fast to do anything but grimace out the window._

 _I swear if this baby decides to be born on Highway 64, I'll make him rip off his own umbilical cord and walk to the hospital. Darrel smirks while he deftly weaves through traffic, "all I'm saying he won't be the first Curtis born in the front seat of a Ford."_

 _Our son was not born in the front seat of a Ford. Thank God._

 _It's December. December 28th and our son is three days long of being a Christmas baby and three days short of being a New Year's Even baby._

 _It's a mild winter, there's hardly any frost on the trees and the only thing that lets me know that it's really December and not October in disguise are the bare trees. Not a leaf in sight._

 _My hospital room looks like the North Pole. The walls are iced white, and so is my bed, my pillow, even the little table Darrel puts his wallet and keys on glistens._

 _I look down at our baby, and wonder how a baby that big and with a head that large came out of my body "nashurally "as our older son would say. He's 9 lbs 6 oz. The largest baby born at the hospital that month, the nurse makes sure to tell us. Darrel is sitting on a chair next to my bed, his arm is around me, his mouth opens into a grin so wide I half think a basketball the size of my stomach will shoot out and hit me in the face. Wow, they must have really put me on some loopy meds._

 _But Darrel just shakes his head with pride, "No fooling," he says to the nurse, "the largest baby born this month."_

 _I just look down at my newborn, sleeping against my chest, and sigh, "you, owe me one hell of a Mother's Day gift, kid." He opens his eyes and looks at me with Darrel's Arctic Sea eyes and it melts me until the tailbone of my spine is Jell-O and I'm wondering why I'm not flopping on the floor like a fish. I cringe because I hate sea food and I'm halfway terrified I'm going to vomit all over my polar bear cub, that I'm going to get bile all over our winter wonderland._

 _But he just looks at me, his eyes as calm as his father's and though he's only a few hours old, he has the wintered gaze of an old man._

 _I think I just received one hell of a gift._

I'm so nervous I feel my insides are shaking, but Billy is having the time of his life.

My two oldest are sitting next to me. C.D. is kicking the chair "there were cops at our home Mommy!" he says over and over again. As if I didn't know. As if I didn't see.

"I know, honey," I say, looking at the sparkling floor. I wonder who the evening janitor is? Luis? He always does a great job; the hospital never looks cleaner than when Luis is on the job. I should make sure he knows that.

I count twenty-three tiles, no, twenty four. Twenty-four perfect tiles. My brother's age.

"C.D. you stand up on that chair one more time, you're getting a time out," I say wearily. But who am I to scold him when I dragged him to the hospital at this godforsaken hour?

He continues to jump up, almost smashing into his brother.

"C.D.! Do you want a spanking?" I say tiredly. Not that I'm in the mood to do anything.

He shakes his head and sits back down, his bottom landing on the hard chair with a thud.

"Oww," He sticks the tip of his thumbnail in his mouth. I look at him and give a half-hearted smile, "that hurt, didn't it?"

I kiss the top of his head.

I haven't even begun to process my son jumping out of the car and running after to me.

Oh God, what if Darrel wasn't there to run after him? What did he see?

Karen looks worried. She leans over to the side and rests her chin in her palm. She lets out such a heavy sigh that I feel as if a weight has landed on top of my own chest. Five going on thirty. I try to reach out and comfort her, but Billy is using my arm as a free weight, trying to lift it above his head. He grits he teeth together, just like Darrel does when he lifts free weights.

"Why did Uncle Edwin break my swing?" Karen asks me, her voice so small that I want to pick it up and carry it inside of me, making sure nothing bad ever comes to her.

With a sad smile I pet her short hair, "I don't know, sweetheart."

 _I'm the oldest of 7 children, but I'm not particularly close to my siblings, except my brother Edwin. Maybe it was the result of our birth order: Jenny the baby, clung to Momma like banana taffy on overworked sticky fingers. My brothers, Pete and Chris were instant buddies and built in playmates, and of course the twins, Bonnie and Leslie. Despite having such diametrically opposed personalities that I couldn't picture them coming from the same universe, never mind the same family, they shared that connection forged by nine months in the same womb and eighteen years in the same room. That left Edwin and me. We used to call him M &M. My brother grabbed his nickname off the checkout counter at the A&P, but even though I called him M&M, it never fit him. Too plain and gimmicky for my deep brother. _

_When Edwin was born I couldn't pronounce his name and he became Winnie. He called me Katie. No one else in our family called us by those names, it was our secret language. When I was growing up Momma was always pregnant or with a baby or toddler at her side. Edwin and I spent a lot of time together. Our favorite was to go on the swings in Crutchfield Park. Two older boys with Roger Maris style haircuts whipped the swings above the bar. The sound of the chain hitting the chipped-paint metal bar rang through me, like some primordial bell of my childhood. My hands on my hips, but my legs shaking, I was about to ask them if we could please use the swings when they suddenly left._

 _Being the older sister and 'in charge' I nagged my brother on the correct way to get on the swing, how to pump his legs up and down, and of course, he should always hold on to the chains as tight as he can._

 _We pump as fast as we can, and we're going so fast and high I'm afraid we're going to whip over the bar. Just as we almost rise to a 90 degree angle, Edwin drops one hand from the chain and reaches for mine. "Hold my hand, Katie," he says in an almost angelic voice. Terrified as I am to 'break the rules' I too let go of one chain and reach for his hand dangling in the air._

 _"What do you see?"_

 _I squint, I really couldn't see much of anything. "Um, I see the sun." The sun was in my eyes, the heat hitting my knuckles._

 _Still holding his hand, I ask, "what do you see?"_

 _In a solemn voice he tells me, "God."_

C.D. begins to sing, "the itsy bitsy spider" to himself, his fingers trying to make the spider's web.

I was sixteen when Bryon and me find Edwin, back when everyone called him M&M, his face fearful, angry and suspicious. I never saw that expression from him before or since. Until tonight. He tells me about the spiders, the spiders in is stomach. The spiders he knew for ten years.

That was over ten years ago. I guess the spiders are still with him. _Oh God!_ Sobs rack through my throat. My husband is getting us some coffee and orange juice for the kids. He already changed Billy's diaper without being asked.

Karen is looking at me, her brows furrow, she vigorously wrings her hands. I try to smile at her, feeling the bitter sting of tears in my cornea. "Karen, can you give me that magazine?" I point to a copy of _Redbook_ on the magazine rack, the cover half-torn off. I don't really want to read it and even if I did, my mind wouldn't be able to focus on the words, but I know my daughter needs to do something, to feel like she's helping.

Happily, she jumps up and walks to the magazine rack, she points and I give her a thumbs up.

"C.D., honey" I say gently, "can you sing another song? Maybe the wheels on the bus?"

"Why?"

"Mommy doesn't really like spiders," I say with a sigh. Karen nods, "Me too. I don't like rats either, but I like mice. Mice are nice and soft." She sighs. Any other time, I'd be wondering when she touched a mouse, but I'm too worried about my brother.

C.D. sticks his chest out, "I love rats!"

The wheels on the bus are still going round and round when Darrel returns with coffee and orange juice.

* * *

Our brothers brought us together. People think I'm talking about Pony, and while I wouldn't have met Darrel without Pony, it was Soda and Edwin who really brought us together.

When I married Darrel, Soda was burning in the pit of addiction. He and Mary were doing anything they could to score a hit, including stealing from his brother.

I was a new bride, pregnant with my first child when my newly minted brother-in-law came over for dinner, gave me a warm hug and left the next morning with $100.00 Darrel kept hidden in the back of his mom's jewelry box. Our baby's money.

"It's not him, Cathy. That guy, that junkie" Darrel's voice drips with contempt, "that ain't Soda."

All I knew was that his brother stole from _my_ baby.

Darrel forgave Soda, but we didn't see Soda or Mary for a long time. It took me longer to forgive. One day in the mail we got a letter with no return address, stained with Coca-Cola or coffee.

" _Dear Karen,_

 _This money is yours._

 _Love you_

 _Uncle Soda."_

Enclosed were five ratty $20.00 bills that looked like they went through the washing machine.

That was five years ago. Soda and Mary are completely different people now. I trust them with my children, they had to earn that trust back, and they did.

Sometimes I'm jealous of how much C.D. likes going over there, "Uncle Soda is the best!" Isn't that funny a few years ago I wouldn't trust either of them to babysit my kids alone, and now I'm jealous at how good they are with them.

I'm not proud.

Soda and Mary still refuse to take a single dime from us for babysitting, saying that the kids are payment enough besides Soda adds, "it's wrong to take money from family." The double meaning of his words not lost on me. So and Soda and Mary, despite having little money babysit my kids for free, trying to pay off a long forgiven debt.

Edwin would never steal from me. It's not the same as Soda. Even tonight, I was more worried that he'd hurt himself than hurt me.

Momma, Daddy and Pete finally arrive. We don't have time for much in the way of pleasantries; Daddy shakes Darrel's hand and gives me a quick kiss. The top of his bald head glistens with sweat.

Pete's going to take the kids home and babysit them, I hand my twenty-one year old brother the keys and pat his arm.

"Thanks, Peter."

He winks, "no worries. You do owe me a case of beer, sis."

"I can't believe Edwin is messed up with drugs," Momma says in a worried tone. She still has her housecoat on.

"He's not, Momma" agitation rises through my voice. I don't know how I know, I just do. Edwin isn't on drugs. I wish Momma would just shut up.

To himself Daddy mutters, "he's been acting real peculiar lately."

Then why didn't you do anything? I want to scream at him, but I don't.

"But he never acted like this before," I shake my head. Edwin sometimes will stare at a wall for hours on end, or laugh to himself, but tonight, with all of his rambled talk, was different. He was different.

"Darrel," Momma begins, "what do you think?"

Darrel stammers for a second, not wanting to be pulled into our family's argument.

Luckily, Darrel is saved by Dr. Johnson.

Dr. Johnson gives me a little nod and takes us to his office. He has pictures of his wife and two children on the walls. Sticks of gum spill onto his desk like tongue depressors. He's trying to quit smoking, his wife is expecting their third.

I pop a piece of gum in my mouth, nervous habit. I haven't smoked since I got pregnant with Karen. Kids really do change everything.

We take our seats, sitting in the exact same positions we did the last time we talked to a doctor about my brother, except Darrel is here in Bryon's place. I scrunch the hem of my shirt. Darrel stands behind me, rubbing my shoulders.

"Edwin is resting right now and…"

"It's drugs isn't it," Daddy breaks in and I want to throw my hands up in the air.

"We're doing testing Mr. Carlson," there is a pause in his voice, as if searching for the right words to say. "But right now we think it's best that we transfer Edwin to the psychiatric unit."

"Psychiatric unit?" Momma asks in a worried tone. I reach out to pat her leg, miss and grab her love handles instead.

Dr. Johnson is a great doctor; he's serious, calm and trustworthy. I trust him to give it us straight. He reminds me of Darrel.

"I'm sorry ma'am. There's no easy way to say this, but Edwin is floridly psychotic."

My soul escapes through my mouth, leaving behind only a small whimper in its wake.

I guess I was right. Edwin really isn't like Soda.

* * *

 _ **A/N: S.E. Hinton owns. Once again truly thank you for reading,reviewing, liking etc. I appreciate you guys. :)**_

 _ **Bonnie and Pete Carlson, Aunt Rita, are characters from "God Help the Girls" which I co-write with the amazingly talented AndThatWasEnough & This is Melodrama. Yes, Bonnie is still an ass ;)**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**This was supposed to be a super ambitious chapter with tons of plot points moving along, but that didn't work out at all! So, here's what I ended up with. If you're still reading this, thank you! If you still want to continue reading this after you're done with this chapter, thank you even more.**_

* * *

Saigon 1972

" _Anna, what did my dad look like?"_

 _My son thirsts for his father and I'm torn between telling him all of these wonderful things about Soda or telling him the truth. I screw my courage and bite my tongue, "look in the mirror." I tell him, closing my eyes._

 _He stares at himself in the mirror, squinting as if he can conjure up his father with the tightening of his eyelids._

 _I get ready for bed. Putting Patrick to bed is an exercise maternal restraint, for some reason, even if he's calm and almost tired throughout the day, the moment I mention that it's bedtime, energy and attitude shoots out of him like dragon breath's. It's at night when I know he's mine._

 _That night, I order him to bed, preparing myself for the shouts and blabbered arguments, when I hear nothing._

 _I quickly walk into the front room, Patrick is still looking at his reflection. I don't think I ever longed for or hated Soda more._

* * *

It's like pulling dick outta a whore's mouth to get Soda to give up the wheel, but not on this return trip. "Drive us home babes, I ain't in no condition," he throws the keys over the hood of our truck and I have to jump up to grab them. Cringing as a large blood clot falls out of my vagina and onto the pad.

It's a line I've heard from him before, accompanied with a set my world of fire grins that ripples through the sallow layers of skin, bone and muscles 'til it reached deep inside of me. Even blood clots and cramps can't dim the spark this man of mine unleashes with his smile.

Watching Soda's grin spread suggestively across his face, 'til I'm sure it ain't just Auntie Flo that's making my Maxi pad moist, I finally get how them crazy ass Manson girls coulda killed for Charlie, cause when Soda gives me one of those grins, I'd burn the Vatican in an inferno of unholy smoke if that will keep that smile on his face.

Reflexively my thumb draws to my first finger to make the sign of the cross. Though I have walked on the wild side at my heart I'm still the little girl in Catechism Class, begging God for forgiveness and grace that is mine as His child and yet feels so far away.

But this time I know the grin ain't really for me, at least not all of it, part of it belongs to Patrick. I'm territorial when it comes to Soda, not afraid to get my hands dirty to protect what's mine. But for Patrick, I'll make an exception. For Patrick, I'll share.

" _The worst thing I ever did in Nam had nothin' to do with killin' people, but it was coming home; because while I came home to one family, I left another family behind." Every word is labored and he sounds a bit like Nana Hernandez when she tried to speak in English. He's pushing the words out like a woman giving birth and when he's done his eyes blink in fear and horror, like he just saw that he gave birth to a two-headed monster. He puts his thumb in his mouth and bites down hard, but no blood comes and he keeps on talking._

 _Sodapop Curtis has done the damn impossible, he shuts me up. I'm slacked jawed and speechless. I feel the prick of tear moisten my eye, it's been so long since I cried, so long since I felt anything. What the hell am I supposed to say? I'm sorry? Those words would be like a surgeon using a butter knife to cut through flesh and bone. His baby is probably dead, I think to myself, his baby is probably dead and he'll never know it._

 _My heart crumbles into a million pieces and drops into the cesspool of my gut. Everything about him oozes pain, sweat pours from his armpits, a small bit of ketchup gets caught in his beard and he folds his hands, almost like he's praying, before violently yanking his hands apart and gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turn translucent._

We pass a car on fire pulled to the side of the road. The fire is controlled and no one looks hurt. Soda watches for a split second. He grabs my arm, I feel his fingernails dig past my long sleeved shirt and into my skin.

"Soda? You okay, honey?" My normal raspy voice high pitched. He turns to me, embarrassed and shrugs, "huh, what?" He goes back to looking at the photo of Patrick.

"He's adorable," I lean towards Soda, and he is. The picture is sorta faded, but you can see enough to of him to see that's a damn gorgeous child and he's Soda son. Even with the crappy lighting I can see Soda's features and the two of us can't stop looking at this beautiful boy.

Soda's been examining the picture from every angle, holding it up to different lights, trying to see something new.

"Does he look happy, Mary?" he asks in a worried tone, the first time he has been anything other than happy or emotional since we found out about Patrick.

Grinning, I meet his eyes through the rearview mirror, "he's just like you, baby." I'm so damn happy that my words are slurred on my tongue like I'm drunk.

"That's not what I asked." Soda says softly, biting the bottom of his lip as we enter through a tunnel.

* * *

I'm suspended from school and it's weird. In Vietnam, we didn't have suspension; the teacher smacked you if you misbehaved. Anna took me out of school because she said I shouldn't be treated like that. She taught me at home. Some people think it might be fun to have your mom teach you, but if she's as strict as Anna, it's not.

At first, I thought being suspended would be like a vacation, I'd ride my bike, drink slurpies at 2:00 in the afternoon while everyone else was in school. But my teacher gave me a whole folder of homework to do and Mrs. Hansen gave me another assignment, to 'think about what I did,' which is the dumbest homework assignment ever.

Anna was in the kitchen making my supper when I told her what happened to me. With Uncle working most of the time, the two of us have the apartment all to ourselves. I like it, we talk a lot, she helps me with my homework and we watch T.V. together. Lately we've been watching a lot of T.V. but I'm not complaining because there sure are some good shows on.

"Kicked out of the fourth grade?! Now I have proof you're mine." She tries to narrow her eyes and glare at me so she looks like a rattle snake, but she turns her head away and I can see that she's trying not to laugh. I don't get it, Anna is smart she went to college in Saigon for a while before the war. I couldn't imagine her getting kicked out of the fourth grade.

"I wasn't kicked out, I was suspended." I said the last word in my language because it's a hard word to pronounce in English.

"What's this other boy's punishment?" She poured Kraft Macaroni and Cheese into the boiling water. She smiles, to let me know that she's not mad at me, but I didn't think she would be. I really have to mess up to make Anna mad at me, like when I made fun of stupid Minh.

I shrugged, and put my week worth of homework on our kitchen table. "He didn't get punished."

It was only then that Anna looked up from the water, her face goes from calm to hot and smoldering.

"How the hell did he not get punished? He attacked you first!" Her voice rises above the boiling water.

She speaks three languages fluently and knows a bit of Chinese. She knows pretty much everything about anything, but when it comes to school suspensions she's just as lost as I am.

I sigh, "he didn't hurt me, I punched him." I try to hide the grin as I think of Hector's shock when my fist made contact with his nose. I lean over her pot, getting close enough to realize that wasn't such a great idea when the steam hits my face.

Anna stirs the pot so hard that her wooden spatula keeps on banging against the side of the pot.

"There's more than one way to hurt someone." She pulls my hair back from my forehead and looks me straight in the eyes. Her hand is hot from the steam, but she doesn't hurt me.

* * *

I straddle the man who, thanks to the blessed hands of an Albino chaplain, is my husband, and sigh.

The joyless expression on both of our faces offers the perfect finishing touches to our drab bedroom.

"You want to do this or not?" I want to give us an out, but he points to his erection and nods. He makes no effort to engage me, doesn't grab my breasts or even my hips. I rub against him in a circular motion, doing all the work, as usual, while he lies there completely impassive and uninterested. It's only his erection that tells me that he's alive. If barely.

I can barely contain my annoyance, "like jacking an icicle up in here," I mutter under my breath in English. Phuc's English consists of nothing more than military terms and subservient suck up phrases, "yes sir, Mr. General Manager, I happy to work 15 hours a day with no over time pay!" served with an obliging white teeth smile and tone deferential and submissive, so I know he won't understand what I'm saying.

It's hard to imagine my husband was once a relatively high ranking military official. This country breaks down proud men into a palpable paste suitable for creating a papier-mâché version of their former selves, 'the happy Oriental' as it were.

Something inside me wilts when I see his latent expression. I crave control, but only when the other person has power to take. Taking from someone who has nothing to give doesn't make powerful, it makes me a thief.

He shows no change of expression, everything about him, from the tip of his short, stubbed eyelashes to the limp hair sprouting out of his nostrils is dormant.

A quote by Anais Nin slumbers through me, I often think of poetry and literature during bad sex, a way of keeping at least part of me satisfied, "I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman."

I have chosen a man who compels me to suffer through premature ejaculation, who makes enormous demands on me and who is so doubtful he makes Descartes the image of certainty.

At supper, his gopher hands with their slender fingers grabbed onto my waist, and his thin lips red and moist whispers forcefully 'tonight.' It's the only words he has spoken to me besides a cursory hello since he arrived home tonight. So here we are, 'tonight,' trying to make love with the awkwardness of two virgins.

I let out a yawn and the tingled sensation that runs from my chest to my privates is the closest I've come to an orgasm in months. I curve my back and my head falls right on a coiled spring jutting from under the cheap mattress they gave us when we first moved to this cowboy limp-cock hellhole. A shiver snaps through my spine and bouncing my back against the springs, feeling every coil thrust against naked skin that spikes with goosebumps, I pray that today I will feel. To feel something other than a heavy emptiness that is already beginning to lick me.

Damnit, if he can't satisfy me, at least I can satisfy myself.

I let out another yawn, a dramatic one, and hope to rile him, because what guy wants to think that he's not, as I used to tell the parade of GIs who would eat my pussy, "the number one lover ever!" With every bat of my eyelash my accent grew thicker and thicker, my I.Q. lower and lower, sometimes, for good measure I'd purposely mess up the order of the words, "lover number one ever!" (giggle, giggle, giggle).

Funny thing, they all seemed to believe me.

I grind against him as hard as I can, desperate something, even if it's a phantom of pleasure because that would be so much better than the deep waves of numbness that have been filling through every pore of my body since I came to this country.

The springs move up and down and from side to side bouncing and jutting up. I bite my thumbnail, feeling the ridged cuticle against my un-stimulated tongue and try to slow down, but the bed springs shake and squawk like one-hundred untuned violins. My son plays the violin in orchestra at school. He's not good. For a second, I worry that my son can hear and that he knows exactly what we are doing.

Even the bed mocks us.

I move faster.

"Slow down Bian," his voice so lethargic that it melts whatever pseudo orgasmic thrill I created for myself. With that, the springs stop squeaking and I slow down because I don't feel like dragging his five-inch dick carcass to the hospital if he has a heart attack.

Leaning towards him, smelling the chicken stock broth I made for his supper dangle off his tongue, I look right into his lifeless eyes, "my name is Anna, don't you ever fucking call me Bian." My voice is as low and ice cold as his love.

I left behind Bian in the village years ago, she's not even a part of me anymore.

I slap his warm, sunken cheek, feeling a tiny trickle of sweat against my palm. Not hard, but I'm taken aback by my own movement. I need to be in control at all times, and being in control means knowing exactly how my body and mind will react, my son and I are alive because I've always think two steps ahead.

My dominatrix personality aside, I can't bite the hand the feeds us, or slap the face which pays our rent, but my hand operating on its own rhythm, reached out before I could realize what I was doing.

I pull back, I'm not worried that he'll hit me, part of me wants him to. To know that I can still bring out the warped essence deep inside us all. The masochist in me is tempered and my mind spins a million threads of thought as I try to guess Phuc's reaction and how I can play it to Patrick's advantage.

As I'm already plotting my mood, something inside of him breaks open and for the first time I don't feel like a nurse giving a geriatric patient his last 'happy moment' before he flops over and dies.

It's the slap which juts him out of his stupor, and awakens a spark of passion in him. I'm a fucking idiot, of course he's one of those guys who gets off on being slapped and punched, it's the whole military thing. Lot of my guys got off on my slapping them during sex, reminded them of their mothers. Sick fucks. A barely contained grin spreads across my lips. The sick guys always turned me on the most, I knew them. I'm one of them.

Guys like Soda Curtis. My mouth opens slightly and Phuc gives me a dented grin, thinking my O mouth is meant for him. The jaws of orgasmic reminiscence snap shut, and a small piece of bile slides up and down my parched throat. Both the unshackled expression and the bile belong to Soda.

For the first time Phuc finally decides to cut the limp dick act; his fingers, forceful squeezes my breast, pulling me towards him and nibbling on my collarbone. He bites me. A rush breaks through skin and I cry out, needing more. His square jaw is firm and I rub my hand on it, a thrill going up my arms a thrill that he owns.

Hallelujah he can still fuck.

The bed spring penetrates every inch of my body, my energy is bouncing, my mouth opens wide enough to hold an entire coil.

"Again" he says softly, eyeing my hand.

I slap him harder, hoping that he'll continue to pay me back. I am a greedy lover.

Not to mention, it's fun slapping him.

I ride him hard, lost in my own passion.

But his eyes roll back slightly and then close. He makes an 'uh,' sound and then dead silence.

The only sound is my breathing and the bed springs. For a second filled with uncommon dread and wanton titillation and above all a feeling of freedom.

He's dead. A thorned smile of twisted desire spreads across my face. I'm about to face the sickest part of me, yet instead of shying away I feel every molecule in my body open up to welcome her home. My blood laps around my bones. I shiver.

I never fucked a dead guy before, and there is something sick and deep inside of me that feels the blood rush into my privates thinking of breaking the ultimate taboo.

It's not that I have a particular thirst for necrophilia, but the last eight months of my life have been so fucking bland that I'm itching to cut off the veil of normalcy and decency that's been shrouded on me ever since I became a wife and moved to Oklahoma.

Diving fully into the pit of darkness is so much better than wading in the shores of blandness; those sharks that everyone else is afraid of? I know them too.

Then I hear snoring.

Eyes rolling to the back of my head I can't help but let out a laugh bitter and cold at the absurdity of it all, to have some guy fall asleep while still inside of me. I guess Phuc does know how to fuck me after all.

I squeeze myself in bed next to him. I look at him in all of his middle-aged blandness and I swallow hard. I pull the covers over him, he prefers the covers; I always preferred the open elements hitting my body, taking in the heat and the cold as it comes, refusing to hide from anything.

But what does it say about me that he fell asleep on me? I think as I push the tip of my thumbnail against my tongue. I try not to let it get to me; try not to think what it says about my own desirability.

I grind against the springs, trying to feel something to counter the doubt which cuts through me. I feel nothing.

I shake the self-pity off and change into the sexiest outfit I have, except for my naked body, and look at myself in the mirror, pathetic and desperate for affirmation.

How pathetic is this? I'm 32 and I'm seeking validation from a short piece of fabric, I feel like a common gutter trash hooker. I never needed to do that before.

I know I'm desirable, I know I have something that no one else does, everyone knows it, but why doesn't he? What's wrong with him?

Everyone tells me I should be grateful for him, that it was his military connections that got my son out of Vietnam, and I'm beyond grateful that my son has an opportunity to grow up in a place where being an American is a boon and not a danger.

But I was the one who got my son out of that country, I did everything I could to give my son a safe and normal childhood in a place that wasn't safe and where his father's blood cursing through him made him abnormal. Yes, I'm grateful for Phuc's connections, but even more grateful that I had the perseverance to save _my_ son.

Why do people think I should just decimate half my brain cells because I'm now a Mrs.?

He should be fucking grateful for me. He should be grateful that I even gave him a second look, I can have any man in the world, and I stuck by him and no matter how grossed out and numbed I am by the servile savant who sleeps next to me, I don't look at another man, I am the dutiful Vietnamese housewife and I fucking hate it.

When I married him, I gave him my hand and my sexuality. It was to death do we part, and only now do I realize that a small part of me died the minute he put his ring on my finger. That the very act of tying myself in holy matrimony to another person, especially someone like General Phuc meant ensnaring myself in the locks of normalcy that I have clawed my way against since I was a little girl.

I quickly turn away from the lost, if sexy, soul staring at me through the mirror. Bian would be so ashamed if she knew who I became.

* * *

In Vietnam, a lot of people believe in ghosts. I'm not saying that ghosts are real or not, but I know what it's like to be haunted. I just turned ten years old, but I already feel like I've lived a million lives and I've been a million different people, and maybe I have? Maybe there are a million little Patrick Nguyens that live inside of me, like those Russian nesting dolls? Open one up, and there pops another one. Except in my case instead of being rosy cheeked Russians with red scarves tied around their heads; they are blonde haired Vietnamese boys with Superman pajamas on.

Oh yeah, one of the ladies at the community center, bought me a bunch of toys and clothes because she said I reminded her so much of her own son. I never had a lot of toys growing up, when my birthday or Christmas or Tet came around, Anna would usually buy me books, if we had money. Told me she didn't want me to be a 'damned idiot.' But Mrs. Ford, she didn't care if I was a damned idiot because she bought me a Nerf football, a skateboard, an Evel Knievel doll and stunt cycle, a bunch of Hot Wheels, a Superman and G.I. Joe and a bunch of pencils and paper. Oh yeah, my bike too. Oh by the way, I'm a good drawer, Anna tells me that maybe I'll go to art school someday in Paris. So, I guess I'm going to art school in Paris someday. Anna likes French movies and books.

Anna hangs up all my drawings she tells me that that me and Egon Schiele are her favorite artists of all times. I have a hard time drawing hands, those fingers really trip me up, but Anna says that it's okay, that she can tell what I'm trying to draw.

Anna showed me a book of Egon Schiele paintings it was in French. I could tell Anna really liked Egon because she was talking very fast and Anna never talks fast.

"What do you think?" Anna's always asking me for my opinion on everything. I think it's because Anna has an opinion on everyone, so she thinks I'm the same way, but a lot of times, I just like to watch things just as they are without thinking.

Anna is always thinking.

I looked at his paintings, they're weird. Everyone looks creepy, like a starving ghost man.

"It's weird," I told my mom. To make my point I spun my finger around my ear like a crazy person.

She pulled me closer to her, "that's why I like them Patrick. He draws what people are feeling on the inside, but reflects it on the outside, he twists everything inside out." She wrings her hands and I look at the paintings. I still think they're weird.

Oh, another thing about me, we got a T.V and I love it! My teacher calls T.V. the idiot machine, and I guess she would know. Not that I would tell her that to her face, because even though she's dumber than dirt I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings. She might be mad at me. I don't like people being mad at me, even when I'm mad at them.

I'm obsessed with cartoons and _Starsky and Hutch_. Oh, and _Baretta_ and _Welcome Back Kotter_. Those guys remind me of my class. When I first moved to this country I could only understand 10% of what they were saying and Anna had to interpret for me, now I can understand about 80%.

I like being a kid. It's weird, I feel younger at 10 than I ever did at 7 or 8. Can you go backwards in time? Maybe I am. Or maybe it's America? Maybe this country makes you young?

I'm ashamed for wanting to be a kid again, because that means I'm not a real man. But then I get my slurpee or jump on my bike or play with my Hot Wheels and I wish I could be young forever. But then I look at my face in the mirror and once again, I'm old.

I'm confused. It feels like I'm both too old and too young all at once. Maybe there's a kid Patrick in me and an adult Patrick and they're fighting with each other?

I don't know who is going to win.

At the community center, Mrs. Ford after giving me the toys, kept on talking about her son like he was sitting in the room with us, which was scary and my hands were shaking. I kept on looking over my shoulders but all I saw was a poster of a girl with blonde pigtails thanking me for not smoking.

I smoked. In the refugee camp. Didn't like it. Smoking or the camp. _I don't think about it. At all. Don't think about it. Don't remember. Don't remember._

Every time I turned away from the poster and back at her she kept on saying how much I looked like her Jimmy.

I always remind people of their sons. Which is funny, cause I don't remind myself of nobody. Not even me.

I saw a picture of her son, and I don't look like him at all. He looked like an asshole, like he thought he was all tough shit in the picture, but I didn't tell her that.

Anna taught me how to look at people; she taught me that people say one thing with their voices and another thing with their faces.

When I was little she would point out the men in her bar, "you see these assholes, Patrick?" I nodded.

"Every man in this room is a liar Patrick, and the worst type of liars, because they don't even know it."

She taught me how people say one thing with their mouths, another thing with their hands, and a third thing with the eyes. I asked her what about people who were blind? Or who lost their hands? I saw people in the streets of Saigon without legs or arms, they crawled around like crawfish, begging for money. I felt bad for them, but Anna would yank me by the arms and yell at me to stop staring. Saying how would I feel if someone gawked at me?

"People look at me all the time, Anna!" It was true. No matter where I went in Saigon people always looked at me. One of my aunties at the bar told me it's because I'm cute, but Anna said it was because I'm half American.

I liked my auntie's explanation a whole lot better.

But that afternoon in my city, eating a banh mi that Anna bought for me, Anna looked at me, "then you should know better."

One guy had no legs and arms, he was just a torso and neck and head. He had a little crate next to him. I put my sandwich on the crate; I thought it might be real hard for him to get food with no legs or arms.

Anna bought me another banh mi, she didn't even complain even though they were very expensive sandwiches.

She still didn't have answer to me about how people who are blind can lie with their eyes.

Anna is the smartest person I know, but sometimes I can trip her with one question.

Jimmy looked like he KNEW he was a jackass. He was smiling like he wanted to show off the number of white teeth he had, but instead of looking happy he looked like he was squeezing a really big turd.

I laughed, but Mrs. Ford just thought I was smiling at the picture of her son. She smiled too and she stroked the picture up and down.

But I found out her son died in my country fighting the war and I felt really guilty and my stomach twisted and turned like it do before you vomit, or squeeze a big turd. All I could do was whisper "I'm sorry." I didn't pull the trigger, but I felt like I did, and all because I was born in the same place her son died.

I felt so old.

She looked like she wanted a hug, and her arms opened up a bit, her hands reaching out for mine, but I'm not great at hugging people.

Before she could squeeze me to death I reached out my hand on top of hers for a few seconds, like I was touching a porcupine, I moved back a few inches, so she wouldn't try to hug me. I lost my pinkie when a piece of shrapnel sliced it off when I was a baby. I don't remember it happening, but sometimes I feel this sharp pain where my finger should have been. My pinkie stub was on top of her pinkie and I looked her in the eye, hoping that she would take my peace offering.

Her hands were shaking and mine began to shake so maybe it's good that we didn't hug, she'd probably fall on top of me, I'm not sure if I would have been able to pull her off of me. Anna would kill her if she crushed me to death.

I knew she would hate me because I'm Vietnamese, but she just smiled and said "thank you." But I know she was just being polite, because while she was smiling with her mouth, her eyes were empty stones and while I can't read people's minds like Anna can, I know she was thinking about her son. She told me that my "sweet words" made her feel better, but her voice was full of sorrow and her arms just plopped down into her lap.

Men in bars aren't the only people who lie.

She looked out the window and squinted, and I may sound crazy, but I think she imagined she could see Jimmy and maybe she could. After all, who knows, right?

In Vietnam, before the war, the ghosts could be friendly or evil but now there are millions of angry ghosts, Vietnamese and Americans, which haunt every corner of my country. I think there are more ghosts than people.

Uncle and his friends sometimes talk late at night about going back to Vietnam and staging a 'counter revolution.' Most of Uncle's friends are old, but they still wear their old South Vietnamese military uniforms when they visit us, but they all lost weight so their uniforms hang off them.

I bet by the time I'm Uncle's age Vietnam would be nothing but a country of ghosts.

If ghosts are real, I bet Jimmy isn't in Oklahoma City with his mama, but angry and afraid somewhere in Vietnam, trying to find his way home. Maybe he's missing his legs and his arms and he's just a torso, a neck and a head, screaming for help. I sure hope he gets a lot of banh mi to eat.

It's late at night and I'm watching Starsky and Hutch and eating the popcorn from Uncle's store and you know what the best part of it is? I don't have school tomorrow!

"Aren't you too old to be wearing a cartoon on your shirt, Patrick?" Anna has he hands on her hips and she looks at me like I'm crazy.

Anger boils through me and I stand up and snap at my mother.

"Look at you Anna, aren't you too old to be wearing that?!" I cross my arms, my eyes go right down her short skirt and long legs. My voice is pointed and sharp.

She just lets out an empty laugh, like I asked a really dumb question, "shut up, Patrick."

I sit back down on the couch and cross my arms but Anna squeezes next to me, her head on my shoulder. I want to push her away, but I can't. She's my mom.

I look down at my blue and red pajamas with Superman's head on my chest, "you really think I'm too old to wear this?" I'm about to take my shirt off, but Anna stop me and flicks my forehead with her finger,"stop being so dramatic, I was only teasing."

I flick her forehead with my finger, "look who's talking." Anna doesn't laugh much, but she cracks up now and her laughter is really sweet.

This is how we tease each other.

It's hard for us to stay mad at each other.

"You gonna see someone tonight?" I ask Anna, pointing at her skirt. Anna snorts, "yeah right, you know I'm a married woman now." She rolls her eyes.

Back in Vietnam Anna made money talking to men and running our bar. But now that she's married she can't do that anymore.

"Why are you up?"

I shrug, "can't sleep."

Anna snorts, "believe me, Uncle doesn't have that problem at all." Her voice drips disgust when she says Uncle's name.

For all of Anna's big talk on liars, Anna herself is very secretive with everyone, saying one thing to one person and the entirely different thing to another person.

I'm the only person Anna is completely honest with, which can be a mixed blessing because sometimes I don't like what Anna tells me, but even when she hurts my feelings, I trust her.

"I fucking hate it here." There is bitterness in her voice that would make my blood run cold if I didn't know how much she loved me. Anna can be kind of mean sometimes, but not to me, never with me.

But as cold and bitter as her voice is, her eyes are so flat and sad.

They reminded a bit of that lady in the community center.

I hate seeing her so upset. I put my arms around her and for a second, she snorts and shakes her head, but she pulls me in real tight for a bear hug.

Oh, that's another phrase I learned recently. I'm not good at bear hugs either, but I make an exception for Anna, as long as no one is watching us.

"This is asinine Patrick, you're getting too big for me to hug," she says and she tries to laugh, but when I try to pull away from her she pulls me in even tighter, like I'm about to fly away.

She runs her hands through my hair, the way she used to do when I had super long curls. Her lips quiver and her eyes aren't crying but they're wet and I'm scared.

It's one of scariest thing I've ever seen. Anna isn't supposed to cry. She's tough.

I turn away from her, angrily, my stomach does a flip flop, my eyes focus on Evel Knievel.

"You're the only person I love Patrick." Her words sink into me. I love her a lot. She goes on, "I wish we were back home."

I think about the last few months, the slurpees, the toys, the getting punished by getting to stay home and you know what? I don't miss Vietnam. But I'm not as honest with Anna as she is with me, so I put my arms around her neck and feel her heartbeat through her veins, "me too."

Every man is a liar.

* * *

"I guess I'm gonna have to find Anna." I snuggle next to Soda. I don't like the way he says her name. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but he doesn't say her name like she's just the mother of his baby. He says it with craving, his mouth is twisted, but his eyes wild.

He's on top of me, penetrating deeper and deeper and normally I eat it up, but tonight, reaching my fingers up to his beard, curling my thin hands through him, doubt barrels through me.

"You ain't thinking of her are you?" I try to sound harsh, but my fear is louder.

Soda stops moving and he glares at me, his eyes narrow, his mouth wide open, "what the hell?!" He shouts, but seeing my worried expression, his face softens. "No, I ain't," he runs the back of his hand against my temple and his touch and words relax me.

He continues for a few more minutes, but the mood is lost. He pulls out.

* * *

 **Thanks you SO much for reading, and if you choose to, reviewing. :)**

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**


	15. Chapter 15

_**It's been far too long between updates, so I wanted to get a chapter up. I'm still debating the best way to tell this story, both in terms of story structure and direction. But as I try to figure out the ins and outs of my crazy Curtis saga, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**_

* * *

"Wait, you accused your man of thinking of his ex while y'all were making love?" Her voice cracks on the last word and Evie's mouth drops open like it can't hold my foolishness between her Revlon lips.

Her eyes, usually serious and put together, look like they wanna pop outta her gorgeous face and catch the next MTTA out of here. That girl has the best complexion ever; clear, smooth, firm. She's around thirty, but shit if she looks a day over eighteen. She looks any younger and Steve would probably have the cops after him.

I did the damn near impossible. Jesus may have turned water into wine, but I flustered the unflappable Evelyn Randle.

My words from last night echo loudly through me, louder than my normal voice but with an eerie tone that claws scratches on the bedpost in my mind. How the hell is it that it's things you don't want to remember that scream loudest of all?

I take a sip of my mimosa, shake my head because I put in too much orange juice and swallow my embarrassment the best way I know. "Well shit girl, you know me, dick in my cooch, foot in my mouth." I give Evie a wink and teasing brush on her arm.

It is kinda funny. I mean, I ain't exactly known for being soft spoken but that has got to take the cake. Least we weren't climaxing when my big mouth got in the way.

Evie cackles, "I love the way your dirty mouth works." I crack up. I'm real grateful that I met Evie, she's one of the best things about Tulsa. One of the only good things about Tulsa. That and the sales at Froug's.

The two of us laugh and sip some more, _okay_ , guzzle. My ears perk up as the General Hospital theme song starts up. But as I look up at the T.V. ready to catch up with Scottie Baldwin and co, all my mind's eye sees is Soda's hurt, angry and maybe, I ain't ready to think this way, guilty eyes. No, they weren't guilty. That's just my Frances Farmer paranoid mind running amok. Right? My stomach rumbles and I tighten up my cheeks before I can pass nervous gas.

Soda's expression is tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. I can't escape it. I'm being ridiculous; I shake my head as if I'm trying to whip out all of that doubt and paranoia. Looking down at my pedicured toes I try to force a grin back on my face. No need getting Evie swallowed up in my mess. But when I look up to face Evie, her face is suddenly somber.

"After all the two of you went through over the past decade do you honestly think he'd ever leave you?"

* * *

 _I'm bleeding from my anus. That ain't a figure of speech. Thing is, I don't care. It's not like I don't notice the way the Doc is looking at me like I'm the piece of dog shit his wingtips stepped on as he waltzed out of his double parked Cadillac. Most of the doctors and nurses at the free clinic are real sweethearts, they've done both me and Soda real good in the past, but every so often you get some high on his horse do gooder who acts like he's been sentenced to a leper colony. His nose crinkles up when he gets in my face to ask me questions. I stink. But I don't care. I don't care that I smell, don't care that the only white on my teeth is the layer of plaque coating my junkie teeth. I don't care that my hair is ratty and unwashed or that I've been wearing Soda's t-shirt four days straight and that folds of dirty white cotton are bunched under my sweaty tits. For a lot of people this would be their Come to Jesus moment. For me it's nothing. Even the fissures, sores, bleeding and pain mean nothing. All I want now is a hit. I need it._

 _They give me a bunch of ointments and tell me not to shoot up my ass again. I can tell by the way the nurse, her boobs dipping down to reach the floor, her flawless chocolate brown skin warm and clean next to my sickly pale pockmarked arms, gives me the instructions she don't expect me to listen to her. Smart woman, she wasn't born yesterday._

 _Soda and me are in one of our off states. We're squatting in the same apartment but we ain't together like we were in the past. But neither of us have no other place to go, so we don't do nothing but exchange needles, say a quick 'hi' in the morning and then do our own things. Soda's hasn't even been home for days. I'm worried about him, but more worried that we're running low. Soda always brings home the high quality stuff and even when we're no longer sleeping together he always makes sure I'm well supplied. He's generous._

" _Hey chica," he greets me without emotion. His jeans are pulled down to his ankles and there's a bowl of soggy corn flakes next to his chair, but no spoon. His eyes are on his thigh as he pushes the needle in further. He cringes for a second, before exhaling with sweet relief._

 _Now that he's got his hit, he can look up at me. His eyes are bloodshot and he sniffles._

" _Got anything good?" He hungrily eyes my paper bag._

" _Just a bleedin' ass." My mood is tight as a wound up ball of yarn._

" _Again, chica?" I don't like the condescending tone he takes with me. Like blondie's got any right to be all judgmental when he's got a nasty abscess on his other thigh. I may plug up my ass, but at least I know how to shoot. Who the hell is he to be acting mortified when I stick a syringe up my ass, when a few weeks ago he was sticking his dick in there?_

 _Anger builds up in me and it's a good thing I'm not high on coke or angel dust or I'd probably do something I'd regret._

" _What the fuck does that mean, SODA CURTIS?" I drag out his name like it's a curse word, cause right now it is. And because I got no needle to puncture my veins, I puncture the dirty air with my spit in his direction. I could take being treating like shit by some tight ass doctor, but by Soda? Fuck him. Fuck his stupid track marked covered skinny cowboy ass._

" _Don't be all high and mighty with me when you look like you got the fuckin' bubonic plague. Fucking junkie whore," I shout at the man who's in every way my mirror image. I'm too desperate to notice to irony in my words and shit, he_ _ **is**_ _a junkie whore._

 _Soda shakes his head and continues to shoot up. "Crazy bitch" I see him mouth the words, but there's no emotion in them, it's almost an afterthought. I suddenly realize that he hasn't even asked me if I'm okay. A sick feeling of worry crawls into my belly and gives birth to panic. Soda, my protector, the man who has always fought for me, sometimes scarily, don't care about me no more. I'm no longer worth fighting for. I'm just the fucked up chick he shares his needles with and fucks. And he don't even do that anymore._

 _Normally I'd be on his ass, but if I'm no longer worth fighting for, he's no longer worth fighting with. Dejected, I stumble onto the mattress, throw my meds on the scratched up floor and reach for a thin blanket to pull around me. I'm not cold, but I need to wrap my sin up, prevent it from seeing the light._

 _I end up tossing it off; it's too hot in this apartment anyway._

 _There's a tiny ant that skirmishes right along next to me and I try to reach out and touch it but my finger keeps on missing it. I don't want to squish it, but I want to touch it. It's the only living thing in this shithole. And maybe by touching this tiny living thing I'll convince myself that I ain't dead even though my skin, my bones, my eyes and my heart all say otherwise._

 _That night I see him squatting down a few feet away from my head, looking at me like I'm some curious object from a freak show, a four headed freak dug up for him to gawk at._

" _What the hell?" I mumble, and I start to panic, wondering if I'm somehow actually dying. Why else would he be looking at me like that? As I squirm and my pupils dilate panic, Soda brushes his fingers across my damp forehead. His touch is strangely gentle. I know Soda can be gentle, but he hasn't been this gentle with me in a long time._

" _Please don't shoot up your ass, that's so nasty darlin', you ain't dirty." I look at my fingernails, brittle and caked with dirt and blood and wonder who the hell Soda thinks I am?_

" _Sorry Dr. Welby, couldn't find a vein," I mutter. And really what's it to him? Hell sticking a clean syringe up in there is a lot more sanitary than poking through veins with half dirty needles. I just did it too many times._

 _I try to turn away from him, but Soda pulls my arm up and holds it close to his mouth, dragging my bone twig arm across his dried and bleeding lips, kissing my track marks. His kiss is rough yet so needed, my mind makes it tender._

" _I would have found a vein, chica." His voice is soft and barely audible, "I woulda found you a vein."_

" _Soda? Get your leg looked at okay? That thing's lookin' kind of nasty." My voice softens. "Please."_

"She isn't his ex," I whisper to myself over the voice of Laura Webber, "they were hardly together."

* * *

"Get rid of the guns," the voice that comes out of me is low, but I hope firm in spite of the steady stream of water running from the faucet that threatens to drown me out.

 _Schizophrenia._

I feel the word on the back of my tongue. It's an odd word I think. The etymology of the word is 'to split the mind' and repeating it over and over again like some strange mantra the word itself takes on those characteristics. Say it. Schizo Phrenia. Shizo Phrenia. The first part of the word: schizo, comes down hard as a knife, sharp and cutting into the languid softness of the last half of the word.

Schizo phrenia. Schizo phrenia. Schizo phrenia.

"Cathy?"

I blink and hand Darrel Billy's bottle, the one with the choo-choo train spiraling from the collar to the bottom and back up again on the other side. We were out most of the morning, me at the hospital, Darrel taking the kids shopping.

Ever since Edwin had that bad acid trip years ago I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop; every late night phone call my heart would beat like crazy, terrified at what horrific life altering news laid on the other side of the receiver. I imagined my brother dead in a downtown alley or down at the police station after robbing a convenience store in a drug induced haze.

But that call never took place, and I went into a sort of haze of my own, thinking that everything was fine with him.

Sure, he was a bit 'odd' but 'variety is the spice of life' I nervously, and with a glass of red wine in my hand explained to my girlfriend when she came over for an afternoon.

 _He just needed to pull himself together. To get with it. To stop being so lazy. To use the brains God gave him._

 _"What does your oldest brother do again?" My girlfriend asked in a chipper tone. She has two children, twins, and perfect nails._

 _I'd swish the wine around my glass, "he's between jobs right now," my voice tried to match her brightness. The wine helped. Wine always helps. He was always between jobs. He'd get a job and only keep it for a few weeks or a month, or he'd get a job offer and not even bother to show up the first day._

 _She'd nod, make some glib remark about Carter, Arab Sheikhs, gas prices and go off on some tangent._

 _I'd eye my wine glass now devoid of everything but a drop, and my eyes devoid of everything but the most superficial signs of brightness and nod vigorously._

 _"M &M was such a smart one," she'd say, almost like an afterthought. As if she's adding the final punctuate mark on his obituary. _

_"Yes, he **is** ," and with that I'd swallow the last drop._

I never expected _this_.

Honestly since we came home from the hospital everything is a blur, it's only my children, my alarm clocks, which keep me on a steady rhythm. That's the thing about motherhood, it doesn't matter how much you wish you can dunk your head in the soapy, dirty water and never surface back up; a stubby, peanut butter and jelly smothered little finger will yank you back into the land of the living.

" _Watch me mama! I can do it for 100 seconds, but you gotta count!"_

" _Wait! That doesn't count! Let me do it again, okay, are you ready?"_

" _Mommy?"_

" _Are you watching me?"_

" _Watch me!"_

Darrel turns to me, his hands pink and fingers wrinkled from washing dishes. I remember when his hands were red and calloused from construction work, the tar that filled his fingernails no matter how often he scrubbed them clean and trimmed them, the scars and occasional splinters that I would pluck out with a pair of tweezers. "Aww Cathy, I don't need you to play nursemaid," he'd try to complain, but the open smile on his face when I leaned over him to pluck out a splinter told a different story.

We've come a long way since then. I also remember how safe and protected I felt, still feel, in those hands and the part that I never told anyone, the way they turn me on. As if I was clay and he was the sculptor: the way his fingers knew exactly what body part ached. I think working physical labor for so long imbued him with an extrasensory ability to know exactly where and how to touch me.

Some women are turned on by their husband's naked body, some by their eyes or smile. Not me, for me the sexiest feature on Darrel Curtis' body, and there are a lot of sexy features to choose from, are his hands.

Why?

Because there is nothing sexier or more alluring than a man willing to work hard. Good looks fade, but hard work and commitment are what separates childhood flings from the lifelong partnerships.

Putting C.D.'s cup on the drying rack, he turns to look at me and shakes his head, "Honey, I ain't getting rid of my guns." His voice is without anger or even the slightest raised pitch, but I've know him long enough to know that when Darrel makes up his mind it's almost impossible to get him to change it.

That's both my husband's best and worst quality, he has remarkable strength of his convictions, his loyalty, to his brothers, our family, his friends, me; has never wavered. It's as strong and resolute as the broad shoulders that stand at attention over the sink and block my view of everything around him. I can't see past him.

One of Darrel's employees ended up in a facility due to a problem with alcohol, the minute he was let out of the hospital and ready to work, Darrel hired him back on. Even I had my doubts, but the man shows up for work every day at least a half an hour early and when the crew goofs off too much, something I should add, doesn't happen very often, he keeps them in line.

"You ought to see him now, Cathy," Darrel bragged with a prideful grin, "I'm going to promote him to foreman soon, he's been doing the work of foreman, got the experience too, might as well be getting paid for it."

The flip side is my husband is stubborn, unwilling to admit when he's wrong, and believe me, he's wrong plenty of times.

I pick up a plate, watch a single soap sud zig zag down the flowers in the middle and start to dry. Vigorously.

Darrel usually washes and dries the dishes, but with everything going on, I like to keep busy. Besides, I felt like I haven't had any alone time with my husband since the visit.

"I hate them," I say closing my eyes, feeling my eyelid muscles strain, and shake my head, "I never wanted them in this house in the first place." My voice bites down on the last word.

While my southern bonafides might be thoroughly questioned, guns always gave me the willies. The last time we fought over the guns, I was pregnant with C.D., "I don't want guns in _my_ house with _my_ babies." The intensity in my voice rises and hardens in rhythm with my middle.

"I have the guns to protect my family, and…" he steps closer until his face was a few inches from mine, his finger pointed an inch from nose, his voice a slow cooker. "Those are my babies too, don't _you_ forget that."

I wasn't afraid, and maybe this was my pregnancy hormones causing my brain to lose whatever semblance of sanity I still possessed, but there was a part of me that felt turned on not by his words themselves, but the way they were said.

I've never seen his beautiful icy blues burn like that, least not at me.

But I wasn't going to let him see that. Instead, I stared him down. But as much as I tried to look cool and collected, which wasn't the easiest looking and feeling like an overstuffed bell pepper, the rash on my collarbone gave me away.

Our argument ended that night not because we reached an agreement, but because Karen broke through with her wailing. She had bad diarrhea and we ended up rushing her to the emergency room with a high fever.

He held my hand as we watched our baby girl's breathing glide into a steady rhythm and when we were able to take her home, he put Karen in his arms, kissed her on both cheeks. His fingers, thick, scarred and large, brushed the top of Karen's baby headband, "you gave us quite a scare there, Missy," he whispered.

After Karen was okay, we went back to fighting, neither one of us willing to give up our position, each one knowing that we were right. I forced Darrel to sleep on the couch for two nights, something I never did before. The more I yelled at Darrel, the more I could feel what would be C.D.'s foot or elbow protrude out from me, almost trying to get in the mix. Even in utero my son was a fighter.

"Cathy," Darrel moaned tiredly one morning, ruefully rubbing his lower back, his hair disheveled, the dark circles under his eyes even darker, "I don't want to fight no more."

It was the first and only time Darrel Curtis ever waved the white flag. He still wouldn't get rid of his guns.

But he agreed to keep them under lock and key, high above on our top closet shelf where the children can't even reach.

"Don't know how good this is gonna do us in an emergency, Please Mr. Rapist wait, I gotta put my bullets in, now first of all what was that combo again?" He muttered sarcastically as he rechecks the lock.

"Thank you," I said dryly, not even bothering to look up from my latest Jackie Collins.

At the time it was a compromise I was able to grudgingly accept.

Now is different.

"We already had this conversation Catherine," his voice cuts through my memory and I hate how damn patronizing it is; as if he's talking to a child and not to the grown woman who birthed him three children.

He squeezes an exorbitant amount of dishwashing liquid on the remaining silver ware.

"Yeah, well we're having it again," I carefully place a dried drinking cup into the top cupboard, and slam it shut.

"The bullets ain't even in the damn gun the kids…"

"I'm not taking about the children," my voice is as wobbly as Billy's toddling. "I'm talking about my brother. What would you have done if he broke into our house when we were here?" My throat is heavy not even wanting to articulate that horrific thought. I feel my eyes sting, but I refuse to blink or look away.

Darrel blinks and his hard eyes are tender, but I won't meet it. I won't give in.

We both stare pass one another even as our eyes are locked together.

The heavy silence, broken by Darrel's deep sigh. "For Christ's sake Cathy, I wouldn't shoot your brother." But under his confidence, in the part of his voice that only me, and maybe his brothers, are attuned too, I hear the uncertainty and fear bubbling up.

"I wasn't gonna shoot your brother, Jesus Christ," the uncertainty in his voice gone and replaced by a stubborn steel toned annoyance.

"Mooommmmmyyyy!" C.D. cries out.

For a second we're still staring at each other, as if the first one to move will lose the argument, a bizarre game of Simon Says played out in our kitchen.

"Moooommmyyy Kaaarreen saiiiddd…"

I roll my eyes, which only causes the tears I never wanted to fall to start running down my cheeks.

Darrel face softens and he reaches his hand out, his still sexy hand, in that smooth, husky voice of his, "Cathy," he begins softly.

But I shake my head, not in the mood for, I don't know what, but not in the _mood._

"I'm going to check on how _my_ children are doing," I say briskly as I quickly turn away from him and storm out of our kitchen.

" _Our_ children," Darrel hisses under his breath. But I don't have time to respond, I need to get to my kids.

* * *

The moment I land on the top of the stairs C.D. makes a mad dash for me, crying, snot running down his nose. "MOOOOOMMMMYYY!" He reaches out for me and I kneel down to give him a hug.

"No! Christina, do it like me!" I hear Karen's voice from her bedroom. Then I hear her pause, clearly exasperated, "please, dear."

"Karen, get out here!" my voice is harsher than I intended. I know that it takes two to fight and if Karen made C.D. cry than he almost certainly pushed her buttons. But with C.D. whimpering in my arms and Karen sulking out of her bedroom with her hands across her chest and a surly look on her face as much as I'm supposed to be the even arbitrator of their fights, it's hard not to pick a side.

"Okay," I said wearily, "what happened? C.D. you're up first."

"Karen said…"

"It's _Miss._ Karen," my daughter breaks in sharply.

C.D. gives a dramatic sigh, " _Miss_. Karen said I'm not gonna get my suitification and Billy is!" I have no idea what the hell he's talking about. But clearly it's upsetting him, so I wipe his tears and nod and pretend this is actually important, because to my son, it is. I try to pretend my brother isn't in a hospital and his brain isn't betraying him.

"Suitifiation?" I look at Karen for clarification.

Karen just sighs, "yup, like Grandma got when she became a teacher. I gave everyone a test and unfortunately C.D. did _very_ bad and so he won't be suitified. I also had to give him a 1,000 day detention for talking back."

I bit my lip to keep from giggling, but C.D. just starts crying again. Karen's friend peeks from the door to finally see what the fuss is about, and I give her a little wave and a smile.

I take a deep breath, "okay, well you know I almost became a teacher, and I think that both of you are fully qualified as _cert-if-ied_ teachers." I cannot believe this is what they were fighting over.

C.D.'s smile threatens to turn into a gloat while poor Karen's looks woebegone. Happily, C.D. marches back into the their 'classroom' and I point a sharp finger at him before he can give his sister a stuck out tongue.

"But they weren't following the rules," Karen says with a deep sigh. I get it. Karen has always been the enforcer of rules and order.

"I know honey, but a good teacher helps her students, she doesn't make them cry." Karen looks down at the floor. Her chin starts to shake. I move her chin up, "and I know you can be a good teacher okay, so please be more patient." I give her a smile. I don't add that if she keeps it up she's likely to scare little Christina away and have no friends to play with.

Karen nods and we walk back into room. I can't help but be impressed, she has her chalkboard easel up with the alphabet written across, there are coloring books and sticker books on the floor. She even made name tags for everyone out of construction paper.

"Okay, class!" Karen claps her hand, "you will now all be suitified, I mean, certified, congratulations." She claps for the class. Christina and C.D. don't say anything, but Billy, his slobbered foot in his mouth, puts his hands together and claps along with his sister.

* * *

Evie is gone and I'm alone in my house which means I'm all alone with my thoughts which is a dangerous place for me. I love people, I need people. I love talking to people and getting to know them. I'm the fun girl, the crazy one who tells all those dirty jokes even before she gets hammered. I can't shut up to save my life.

Cept when I'm alone.

Then I only have my doubts and loneliness to keep my company, and not even my gal Patsy Cline can break through and give me relief.

For years Soda and I were each other's one and only. Soda ain't just my man, he's my everything.

You can't go through what we did and not feel a bond so strong that it almost feels as if nothing and no one else exists. We saved and destroyed each other so many times over the years, being each other's dealers and healers. Somewhere along that twisted road of destruction and ecstasy, despite, or maybe because, of our fucked up issues that went way beyond the drugs, we fell in soul love and haven't looked back since.

We got clean. He got clean for me. Do you get that? My man went through the tortured hell of withdrawal because he wanted to be clean for me. That's what he told me, "you're worth it. I'm gonna get clean for you." I've had men sweet talk me before, had a man tell me I was his queen, but no one ever meant it.

And when I was finally ready to give up the junk for good, Soda was there for me. And hell did I stumble; but he was always there for me, holding me, cleaning me, encouraging me, fighting me, but doing whatever he needed to pull me out exhilarating darkness I swam in since I was thirteen.

He saved my life. When it comes down to it, when you distill our sometimes warped relationship down into one element, here's the thing everyone needs to know. He saved me from dying.

And now what?

We're clean. Have a house, got good friends and families, both got jobs. We got it all. And now our messy but real love is facing the hardest test of all, how to be normal.

I'm relieved when Soda walks in the door, the picture of Patrick wrapped around his hand like one of 'em religious icons.

"Hi babe," he gives me a small smile.

"How was your day?"

I shrug, "had Evie over, that was fun…" I don't want to worry Soda, not with Patrick, but Soda's the only one I can talk to, "got a call from my brother."

Soda's eyebrows raise slightly, "yeah? Everything okay?" Soda knows about Jimmy. Knows what Jimmy did for me. Knows how I carry that overpowering guilt over my brother fate like a tsunami wave. Even though Soda always tries to tell me it ain't my fault what happened to Jimmy.

I roll my eyes, "Jimmy wants everyone to call him Jaime now. Can you believe it? Ain't like he doesn't have enough problems just being _Jimmy_ Hernandez." I worry about my brother and feel waves of nausea swim around my stomach.

Soda, sensing my panic and anger, brushes my hand; "hey, he'll be okay. His parole ends in a few years, he'll stay out of trouble." I'm the religious one, but I sure wish in this case I had Soda's faith.

"You visit your parents?" I say wanting to change the subject. I look at his hair falling across his forehead in pieces of shaggy bangs. I'm gonna need to give him another trim soon.

"Yeah, I tried to stop by Darry and Cathy's too. This is too important to give the news over the phone, but they were out. But yeah, I had to tell my parents about Patrick, he's their first grandchild after all." I feel like the lump in my throat is about to burst. And I lean on his shoulders, "they woulda loved him," he says as the sadness in his voice rises.

I shake my head no and finger my crucifix, my other strength, "they still do. They're still looking out for all of you guys. You think that little boy was alone for all the years? He wasn't. They were always with him."

He buries his head in his hands and I can see the sobs rack up his shoulders before he makes a noise. I take his arm in my hand and feel my way down his healed scars and veins, kissing him.

It's what I give him. It's the only thing I can give him. My fingers are still bone thin but my fingernails, manicured and polished, glow under our faded living room light.

* * *

I don't even notice our five year age difference anymore. Cathy is the youngest wife on our street and with the exception of the few trophy wives slinked on the arms of club members, the youngest wife at the club, yet she's so together and mature she fits in perfectly. But what Edwin is going through has left my wife almost crazed with worry.

The phone ringing, the door knocking, even Mrs. Gladis' dog knocking down the garbage startles her. I've never felt more helpless.

I tell myself that she's still in shock; her system is still in a hyper arousal state. Thing is, I ain't sure if it should be lasting this long.

It's seeing Cathy with the kids that provides a small measure of relief.

Even her fighting me over my rifles means that her fighting spirit hasn't completely burned out.

I gave the two older ones their bath, probably one of the last times we get to take advantage of the time saved by bathing both of 'em at once, since Karen is getting too old to be bathing with her little brother, especially when she starts school in the fall. After I dealt with the tears, "No Tears Shampoo" my ass; get them both in their pajamas and let them pick out the bedtime story, I went downstairs to discover Cathy in the kitchen, looking out at our daughter's busted swing set.

"He used to think he could see God," Cathy's voice is on the verge of hysterics. "That's crazy isn't it? When we were kids he used to think he could touch the hand of God if he swung high enough on the swing set."

I don't know what to say. I never know what to say.

She continues, shaking her head, "I always thought that story was sweet and nice, but it's crazy isn't it Darrel? He was always crazy."

I reach out my hand to her, but she shakes her head. "I want to be alone. Please."

I watch some T.V. in the living room and walk up the stairs to our bedroom, grateful that Cathy ain't making me sleep on the sofa this time. Both Cathy and I get to the door at the same time and we see C.D.'s Stretch Armstrong sitting on the bed, even though the kids aren't supposed to be in our bedroom without our permission.

"Mama Bowo. C.D." he wrote in sloppy handwriting on torn construction paper.

"Look," I say proudly, "his spelling's pretty good for a four year old." C.D. was already reading.

She nods, "he's a sweet boy," her voice breaks again, and I know that again she's thinking of her brother. C.D. except for his brown hair is the spitting image of Edwin. He's got the Carlson family nose and grey eyes.

We wake up to a knock on our door. "Mommy!" my oldest son cries out.

In his pajamas he stands in our doorway, "I want my Stretch Armstrong back," he says moving side to side.

"Of course," Cathy says and pats the space between us, "come here." Our son jumps into our bed and onto Cathy's lap, his toe nails digging into my thigh.

"You're so sweet to let me borrow your Stretch Armstrong, and I love your card."

"Yeah, you did a real good job with your spelling," I add, giving him a grin.

C.D nods, "Karen helped me," Cathy and I nod. Karen is five and already a budding school teacher. "She said the first way I spelled it was wrong."

"Howdya spell it?" I ask with a grin.

C.D. closes his eyes, "um, 'b-o-r-r-o-w."

Cathy and my jaws hit the floor. "He's four," Cathy mouths to me.

"Not even four and half yet," I mouth back.

I shake my head in amazement. I had an idea he was a smart kid, but had no idea he was this smart. I let out a little amazed laugh, but Cathy only presses her nose against our son's neck and closes her eyes. Her brother was a real smart guy.

* * *

"3/4th a cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 ½ teaspoon baking powder…" I walk into our bedroom and see Pony with Paige at his chest and a Betty Crocker cookbook in his hand.

I laugh, "You're reading our baby cookbooks?"

"What?" Pony says with a smirk, "she was bored."

* * *

The banging on the front door wakes us up. Cathy is up with a start, instantly grabbing onto my forearm, digging her untrimmed nails deep into skin. "Edwin?" She calls out in a panicked voice, her chest heaving in and out. Moving my hand, I rub two fingers against the nape of her neck, that relaxes her faster and deeper than a shoulder rub or back rub.

I steal a quick glance at the alarm clock, it's early morning. Not an ungodly hour, but not an hour we expect visitors.

"I'll check," I say in as solid, even keeled tone as I can manage. I run my hand through the dozen cowlicks that spring up like weeds after a restless night.

Cathy her grey eyes hovering just at the edge of panic, nods all while I silently pray the knock at the door isn't my in-laws to tell me Edwin is dead. When it comes to my family my imagination is as wild and untethered as Pony's used to be.

We walk down stairs, Cathy a pace behind me. Through the window I can see it's Soda. My first guess is that something is wrong, real wrong, but when I open the door he has the biggest grin on his face and he pulls both of us into a bear hug, he looks like he just ran a marathon even though I can see his car in our driveway. "Oh God. My little boy, he's okay, Darry. I know where my son is."

* * *

I'm shook.

There's no other words. I never dared told Soda this but after Soda lost contact with Anna, a deep part of me feared the unthinkable. Because you learn when you lose so much that the unthinkable happens more often than you expect.

Cathy gives Soda a hug and he leans into her. Billy starts to cry and for a few minutes we're all too stunned by the news to move or say anything. Finally, I start moving towards the stairs, but Cathy shakes her head, "I got it."

The two of us sit down and this moment I've been wanting for ten years is nothing like I'd imagine. Our lives, not just Soda's but Cathy's, Pony's, Mary's, and Aimee's will be forever altered by this news; just like our family was forever changed when Soda first told Pony and me of Patrick's existence all those years ago.

We're never gonna be the same. But in my living room everything feels strangely normal.

But when I look at my brother I see already how much Patrick has transformed our normal.

Soda looks more than happy, there's a joy to his face, a pure unabashed look of love when he looks at a crumpled newspaper clip in his hand and then looks up at me.

"Do you wanna see my son?" Soda says with pride.

He hands me the newspaper article, crumpled up and smudged, but I can clearly make out the photo of a boy in the middle of the page.

I shake my head and cover my mouth, wild, joyful laughter threatening to escape from me.

"Hell,Pepsi-Cola, that's _your_ kid."

And he is. Even in the faded print I can see Soda in that boy. In Patrick.

Silently, I breathe in a sigh of relief I've been holding for all these years. I never shared this with Soda, cause it seemed pointless and cruel and because I know how riled up he gets; but in the back of my mind I sometimes questioned whether Soda was the father and how we would ever know for sure.

From what I gathered war time South Vietnam wasn't exactly a nunnery and Anna wasn't exactly Mother Superior. And given the whole Sandy debacle, I don't think my thoughts were out of line.

But those questions are laid to rest and buried in cheap newspaper print. People use to think that me and Dad look alike? That's nothing compared to Soda and his son. His son. My little brother's son. My nephew.

I look up from the photo, and Soda's hand is reaching out, he wants to hold onto his son again and though his hand is shaking slightly his face is beatific.

Soda tells me all about how he found out about Patrick. Of course it was Pony. Of course he would be the one to reunite Soda and his son.

As Soda talks in a rushed, hurried voice, grinning down at the picture of his son every few second; my mind is going into overdrive, thinking of everything we need to get Patrick back: attorneys, getting a revised birth certificate with Soda's name on it, money. Unlike times past, my stomach doesn't drop into a million jagged pieces of nerves when I think of money. For once, we have some.

"We'll get the best lawyers, go to court, contact the…"

Soda cuts me off mid-sentence, putting his hand out in front of him, his eyes steady and with a severity I don't expect, he leans towards me and shakes his head. "No lawyers."

I raise my eyebrows; does Soda realize how difficult it's going to be just for him to see his son, never mind getting visitation? Legally and in all other ways, Anna holds all the cards.

Soda shakes his head, "no man. Listen, don't think I don't want to take my truck drive to OKC and stalk every elementary school playground to find him." His leg shakes a bit against the chair leg, but his voice and his face is taut, and for Soda, almost expressionless. "But I'm not gonna do it like that. I can't do that to Patrick, or to Anna. Not after what I did to 'em. I gotta do it the right way."

I know Soda's making sense, but I also don't think Soda realizes how difficult this is going to be.

"It's not going to be easy," I say softy, not wanting to ruin my brother's happiness.

"Don't you think I know that Darry? Come on man. I ain't born yesterday. It kills me that he's just a few hours away from me. But you know what's stopping me?" He pulls out the photo.

"This. This is stopping me."

"Look at him Darry, look at my kid. He's smiling, is well clothed, well fed. He looks like any other kid in Oklahoma. That's all Anna. She did all that for him. Look what she did for me? She not only carried my baby, she raised him. She gave me this. I play by her rules, no questions. She holds all the cards. If I'm gonna be Patrick's dad, I need to do right by his mama first."

What if she won't allow you to see him or even write to him? Cathy asks in a gentle tone, I hadn't realized she back downstairs.

I shoot her a raised eyebrow and shake my head. She shrugs her shoulders, "what, it's a good question" she mouths back at me when Soda's back is slightly turned.

Soda's eyes turn dark and I can feel the air becomes charged and now, finally, the atmosphere reflects the earth shattering news Soda laid at our feet.

"She don't let me see my kid? _Then_ she'll find out what war is really like."

* * *

 ** _Thank you! For everyone who has stuck through me with this loooong story, I appreciate each of you so much. :)_**

 ** _S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders_**

 ** _I don't own Marcus Welby M.D. or General Hospital or any other real world reference._**


	16. Chapter 16

**_Here it is, for real! :) Along with switching over to the M section (thank you to everyone making the switch with me) I also changed the title since technically 'the visit' is over. The title comes from Jackson Browne's Running on Empty_**

 ** _So with a new title here we go..._**

* * *

I lied.

Given my heavy breathed track record of shaking, baking and battering the truth 'til it flops and flounders like a dehydrated fish on sizzling concrete, my latest jump off the truth wagon don't surprise me.

What I told Darry was the truth; I had every intention of taking it slow and easy. For Patrick.

But the moment I leaned forward to speak those steadfast and logical words to my steadfast and logical brother, what best be described as a charge of electricity bolted through me, and it's a wonder I'm not flopping like a dying fish under Darry and Cathy's coffee table. But only the back of my ankles, hitting against the legs of the armchair makes any movement.

 _"Look at him Darry, look at my kid. Look what she did for me?"_ The words, the first kind words I had for Anna in years clench onto my teeth like plaque that refuses to fall off.

Then I hear it from deep inside. "Get your son."

My ankles stop tapping. Stuck, there's nothing to do but stare hard at the wall of family photos behind Darry.

Karen's first bath. "Get your son." _But I gotta be patient._

C.D. dressed like a pumpkin for Halloween. "Get your son." _But I gotta let Anna drive_.

Billy sleeping on his Dad's chest, my nephew's tiny chest and Darry's massive chest melting into each other.

"Get your son."

And I got nothing.

* * *

The voice now heavy and thick, rattlesnakes it way down like hard liquor. Ash grates against the inside of my throat with each sucked in breath. My chest burns something awful and I don't even have a good time to show for it. And I'm losin' whatever sanity I got 'cause now I can hear their heartbeats through the photo.

They beat together.

The quick breath that heaves my chest forward snaps me back into reality, or at least back into my brother and sister-in-law's living room. The pictures go silent. It's only my own heart that's beating and pumping out of my chest like bullets from an M-60. My eyes hit the carpet in tandem with embarrassment.

"Soda?" His concern oozes like toothpaste squeezed from the fat of the tube. A hand touches my knee. For a second, I feel okay. For a second. Then a voice, not the voice I've started to hear, but my own voice, tells me what a fuckin' nutso I am. I can't even tell good news without losing my shit.

"I'm good." _Ya know, just hearing things and how things going with you Dar?_ I grin up at him and I can tell he don't believe me. Have my lies gotten worse or has Darry gotten better at reading me? Smart. How can he trust me after the lies I told?

But why does that piss me off? Maybe it's cause I'm not in control, I'm not okay. I'll never be okay. We all know it. There's only one person who can fix me.

My head is heavy and rushed. Pieces of disjointed thoughts dig a headache into my sinuses before escaping through my nostrils in breaths short and it takes everything I got to calm myself down.

My eyes focus in on the baby's stuffed purple elephant rattle that lies prone on the carpet. I don't have any imagination and Darry's living room, spotless 'cept for the rattle and a few baby toys lying about, has nothing in common with the dusty shit pockmarked "roads" of the Central Highlands, but fuck if I can't smell the burned-out hamlets, the shit, the napalm, the sweat… my baby's newborn scent just by gaping holes into the carpet.

Nostrils have eyes and ears and a bitch of an unforgiving mind.

* * *

The shirt covers the bridge of my nose and my cough. It does not cover my memories. The war and my kid bound and gagged. Is it his cry I hear at night? Or the cries of the unarmed Cong before (and dependin' on the skills and nerves of Uncle Sam's boys, after) the bayonet hits their minds and the bullet whizzes through their hearts?

In the end, does it matter? I wake up in cold sweat, take a pill and look out at the window at the neighbor's back porch all the same.

I can't separate my boy from the violence, chaos and destruction that surrounded him. That surrounds me.

I'm sick.

"Christ, Darry, I'm fine." My eyes narrow into my lie.

Darry is still looking back at me when Cathy walks back into the living room and I'm relieved for the distraction. Darry is too. With one leg lifted straight up in the air like she's a ballerina, swoops down and picks up the rattle, examines it for a second before stuffing it into her pocket. I got no idea my sister in law was so flexible. No wonder Darry's so happy these days.

I grab the last hard butterscotch from the candy dish, use my teeth to rip off the wrapper and wince as the candy seeps into my cavities. Oh yeah, my back teeth are fucked up as all hell. Looks like a fuckin' mine shaft, nothing but black holes. Partly cause of the drugs, partly cause I'm still a sugar fiend. Mom had sorta screwed up teeth too; that's where I get it from. I suppose.

My eyes zero past Darry's head and in on the photo of C.D., Pony and me. C.D.'s head balanced on my shoulder blade, his bare feet smashing into Pony's cheek, his body hanging in the air between us. I chuckle in spite of the pain at Pony's annoyed grimace and C.D.'s Cheshire cat swallowed the canary grin. That boy is crazy. I look at my grin and my blood ices. It's wide, bright and so fuckin' empty. You'd never know I got bunch of cavities. You'd never know I've worn a mask for a decade. But I know.

You begin to trick or treat your mind, thinking that you're normal, thinking you're just a regular husband and tax payer and all that jazz.

Then just like that, the mask slips.

You were never normal.

I lift my shoe and carefully examine the tiny hole I got in the bottom of the sole.

There are too many damn holes. Everything aches.

He's missing.

* * *

Every moment I never got with my son screaming all hell at me, ringing in my ears louder than human sound: the bubble of every bath, the knock every Halloween and loudest of all: the quiet moments. I'm beggin' to hear that voice again. At least it's a distraction. The butterscotch is almost dissolved. My sanity is next. All those moments my brothers had and will have with their kids pushing deeper and deeper past the overwhelming love I feel for my family, past my happiness of finding my son until my chest is about to explode sending fragments of flesh and bone into every perfectly arranged frame on Darry's wall.

Knowing where he is and not seeing him hurts so much more than when I had no idea if was still alive.

I hate myself for even thinking that.

The voice comes again; clear now, more like water than bourbon, as if it knows I'm losing it and need to be calmed. My lungs tight and knotted under violent feelings. This time I actually listen to the voice and a closed smile slowly spreads.I know this voice. My own voice becomes calmer, steadier. I can see Darry's shoulder relax, even as he's still leaning off the edge of the seat My head is buzzed, but instead of falling into a woozy emptiness the voice jolts me to action. I sit up straight. I tell Darry I'd go to war with Anna over my boy. I grin. I mean it.

Shit, I know. I sound jacked up. But I ain't. I never felt steadier or more certain. But that's no surprise; Dad gave me his eyes, his love of horses and a backbone.

Talking to Darry, our voices distant and muffled like we're in an underground cave. I can see the rising sun through the windows and suddenly there's so much light in the room I have the squint in order to make him out. But the voice, my dad's voice, keeps going: "get your son, get your son, get your son"

I'm soon to be turning 30, clean, employed, married and hearing the voice of my dead father speak through me.

Yet I lean into the voice, I don't question it, in fact, it don't even cross my mind to question.

I've always been strange.

* * *

Our hug is tighter than normal as we say our goodbyes. Darry doesn't pound the shit out of my back like he usually does. I lean my chin on his shoulder for a second like a little kid, before letting go and clasping him across his back. I turn down Cathy's kind offer for pancakes and bacon even though my stomach is grumbling hard. Then I look at her and cringe. Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?

"I'm real sorry about your brother." It tricks my tongue being the one saying these words to someone else, instead of being the one talked about.

Cathy looks genuinely touched, brings her hand to her heart and smiles, "thank you, Soda," her smile is steady, even as her voice breaks at the end. Course now I feel like all sorts of shit for even bringing it up. I know what it's like to want to bury your pain so deep inside until you tricked yourself into believing it's not even there.

But it is. It always is.

I love her, and because I love her I want nothing more than to pin her against the wall. Force her grey eyes into mine and tell her the truth. Things are never gonna be okay, Cathy. You should leave your brother in that loony bin and never look back cause Darry and the kids need you and _I'm so fuckin' sorry._

Instead I give her a reassuring pat on her pat (least I hope it's reassuring), "it'll be okay darlin'", promise Darry to call him that night and walk out just as I hear the kids race down the stairs. I can hear the neighbor's pooch goin' to town even before I reach the door. It's only one dog, but he's so loud he sounds like three.

For the first time I notice a hole in the wall of photos; where she had a picture of Edwin and her playing on the swings at Crutchfield, with the monkey bars and old fountain in the distance. That picture always gave me the heebie jeebies. Who wants to be reminded of their past?

But Pone don't seem to have a problem with it, so I say nothing.

Only the nail remains.

* * *

I shred down I-44. The stale air, whipping itself into something resembling a breeze, cuts through my hair.

 _Eruption_ pumps through the stereo, bleeding guitar and testosterone into the roar of the morning rush. I'm inside a blender, sounds liquefy together. The loud honks from the semi-trucks blast through the wall of fluid sound, but not my mood. I figure Darry'd understand my last-minute change of plans. If there's anyone who knows how the best laid plans can get routed, it's him. But I don't give a damn either way.

My mind, usually is full of a bunch crazed half-baked thoughts; 'stoned monkey on a sugar high' is how my wife describes it, is cold eyed focused. My son. He's got my face but Pony's ears. I smile so big it hurts. It's an involuntary, emotionally it feels good, but a bit off kilter; like getting in a perfect kill after hours of waiting.

Quickly as it came, my smile disappears and my face catches up with my thoughts and emotions: impassive, expressionless. Determined.

The fucker in front of me is goin' 55 mph. What? Does no one know how to break the speed limit anymore? Why the hell couldn't I have landed behind a women going into labor? Usually I'd be screaming obscenities at the driver and giving him the one finger salute, but I don't want to start something, not when I'm going to see my son.

The guitar ends.

But, Patrick, he remains. He always remains.

* * *

Despite my sloppy appearance, piercing and wind disheveled hair, my posture is erect, eyes alert and chin perfectly parallel to the floor. My C.O. would be proud. Even my shoulders, usually loose and rollin' around stand still. The guitar solo ends and _You Really Got Me_ fills the truck.

Between my only white teeth, a torn yellow piece of paper, an address written in my large chickenshit scratch. It presses against the tiny metal stud on the edge of my tongue. I bite down; taste the bland paper against my parched tongue.

 _Anna._

* * *

Muscles crash into guts. Nausea punches my stomach like Ali on angel dust. Again and Again and Again.

My tires make a sharp turn, squealing misery like a stuck pig as I pull off the road.

Last night's beef stew oozes into the grass. Then Mary's homemade banana cream pie. The butterscotch makes an encore. I drop to my knees, holding my convulsing stomach until all that's left to heave is air and shame. And then more beef. Half chewed with bits of pink. I like things rare. Raw.

Least none of it ended up on my shoes or clothes. I'll pop a bunch of Certs make sure my breath is clean and get to my son before noon. I'll pick up some Chinese food for him. Hope it will make him feel more at ease. Then I see him. The haunted stare of a man dressed in nothing more than a Haines undershirt, blue jeans frayed at the ankles like a hobo's nightmare. The unwashed hair really seals the deal. My eyes blink. My shoulders sink in defeat.

 _My God._

* * *

"Let's go here," Mary excitedly reaches over my shoulder, nearly jabbing me in the eye and points to Scar's. Buck's evil twin. The redneck country club. The shitman's shit hole. Her enthusiasm, bright and alluring stands blinding against Scar's piss yellow dimmed sign, half hidden by a man sellin' dope, I guess, on the open sidewalk. But all she can see is the lone neon light that blinks through the window and a night of fun.

She's got no idea I tried to see Patrick and Anna today, and cruising around Tulsa it feels this whole city is a starless map of regrets and fucks.

I cringe, remember the last the time I was at Scar's and strangle the steering wheel. I'd rather strangle every single bad memory that shows up like a thief to steal the life I'm tryin' to build for my wife and me.

"No darlin, that ain't your kinda place." My voice pleads. As if I'm the only person capable of keeping her from falling into a life of depravity, when looking at her inky covered twig arms, I know I'm the one who kept her down for so long. My wife's tough, but Scar's dirty and Mary Curtis belonged nowhere near that filth.

Mary chortles, "and what is _my_ kinda place?" She holds the 'my' long. There's still a tease in her voice but I can hear her anger push through, wanting to throw down the gauntlet.

Her toes dig attitude into my lap. She sits with her back against the passenger window and her legs stretched out. The back of her knees hitting against the cup holder. It looks uncomfortable.

I say nothing. Maybe I grunt. I don't remember.

"What the hell's going on, Soda? You've been pissed licked as an alley cat in heat all afternoon." She's right. Even her pulling down one of dad's old saying does nothing to improve my mood. But while dad always slipped in a sly grin after one of his Ozark insults as if he was in on the joke with you, she lets out the line with scalding bite.

Her little metal cross whips around her finger like a propeller, the cut in her voice slicing through my patience as she goes on and on. Shit talking about me like I ain't two feet away from her. I don't want to talk. I don't even know why I suggested we take a spin. Force of habit I guess. Whenever things get hard, I take off. Least this time, I didn't take off alone, though a half part of me is wondering if I'd be better off. She'd be better off.

It's the moonless night, the sky blue-black of a shiner. The dark road that juts and spins in front of me like a jackrabbit hopped up on speed. When I'm driving at night it's a lot easier to imagine things than in the daytime when stark reality stands as clear and unforgiving as the grass-green 'city limits' . Knowing my luck, there's some nocturnal neurosis bubbling under the surface of everything else. At night I can slip on my mask and imagine we're on the road again. We got nowhere to go, nowhere to be, except the people we pretend to be.

The man cold eyeing me through the rearview mirror tell me who I really am. I look away so fast I get whiplash.

"Feel free to talk to me anytime, Helen Keller." I don't say that I'm pretty sure Helen Keller could speak, just couldn't hear or see. Did she have a husband? If she couldn't talk, her husband's that's the luckiest sonofabitch who ever lived.

I don't say it because there's a hurt in her voice that I wish I couldn't hear. And I'm the cause. My Mary, she's a tough broad, but underneath it all she's still a little girl who got whipped too much by the world. It's easier when she's pissed at me. Even to this day, with everything, I still can't stand to see her hurt or upset. It physically hurts me. It's as if there's a double knotted rope tying her heart to my gut. But there are nights like tonight where my anger is a selfish beast, gnawing the rope 'til we're left untethered. All I need is for her to shut her mouth.

"What the hell did I do?" Her voice heats. Her hands shoot up like flames.

"Nothing." My voice ices. My fists tighten into snowballs aimed at the windshield.

"Soda.."

Putting my freehand on her ankles the sigh I heave is heavy and smile forced as I duck out of Jesus and my wife's way.

"Please. Can't we have a nice night out? Do we got to talk 'bout everything?" I say to the woman who is my everything. My voice rough, drips with anger meant for so many people, but sprays out on her. My knuckles are white. My neck feels heated.

But we do need to talk, don't we? We're husband and wife. I'm full of so many jumbled emotions I can't even explain it to her and that alone hurts. Cause for years she was my one and only. She still is, but now that I need her more than anything, the words just ain't coming. It's all in my brain, but between my brain and throat is a tangled road that no word wants to tread. She moves her feet off my lap and turns to face forward and away from me. Her arms as crossed as her mood. Thanks to me. Guilt knots my stomach and I wonder if the pie is gonna make another appearance when I swallow down bile and up an image of another woman. She has a bemused, slightly bored expression as if crashing through my thoughts is an everyday occurrence for her.

Instead of whipped cream I spew out words, "I tried to see Patrick today."

And it's amazin' how my kiddo can change the mood of place without even being there.

The coldness that I forced on us is thawed and Mary stops whipping around Jesus and her mouth. She thoughtfully holds the cross in her hand, looking at it, measuring what to say. I love my wife, but she don't exact have a tight lid, that she's holding back her tongue tells me that I threw her for one hell of a loop. I'm waiting for her to say something, to give me the approval I crave, or to at least bust me for being an idiot.

Silence creeps me out. Silence is the gapin' hole between where who you are and who you want to be.

And I want to be a good husband.

She's silent for a second, and I wonder if she ain't beating me at my own game. Giving me the silent treatment. I shake my head, the shame and guilt follow. No, Mary can be hurtful sometimes, but she's never cruel on purpose. She doesn't have it in her.

Not me.

Then reality strikes midnight. Her jaw falls to the floor like Bugs Bunny in the old Merrie Melodies. Then she closes her mouth tight and for five whole seconds becomes a statue. I'm decent at reading people but I can't read her expression and it got nothing to do with the unlit stretch of street we're driving down. It's eerie. The most expressive, open person I know, hidden behind a veil whose only slit is the slight separation of her bottom lip from her top.

I must look miserable cause when she starts talking her voice is so tender. "You said 'tried' what stopped you?" She has no idea how much I want to wrap her kindness around me, no idea how much I rely on her. She won't find out. Then she'll want out of this marriage for sure.

I scratch over the healed scar Anna's temper and a well-aimed beer bottle; my own physical injury from the war caused by the mother of my only child.

"Yes, given what you did to my vagina, I'd say we're about even," she said while holding our son, looking up at me and smiling. I remember that conversation because her smile was sincere. Anna knew how to rev up the charm to get what she wanted. She had a magnetic smile and fuck if she didn't control half the dicks in The Can-Can Club with one smoldering grin. But rarely was her smile honest. It was that night.

It's one of the few things about that night that I allow myself to remember.

The memory of the paper still hits my tongue. Fuck, I wish it was acid. If it was any darker it could be.

"Didn't want to scare Patrick," I half lie and I hate that look of sympathy she gives me. She believes me. I hate that right now I know that Anna would be calling me on my bullshit. She never believed me.

"Some place nice and clean, that's your kinda place, some place nice," I finally got around to answering my wife's question. Her sharp, angular features, almost feral in periphery, grow sharper with the glow of the street lights.

My self-hate clips the air. A piece of saliva joins it.

Fucking disgusting.

"I'm sorry," I say miserably. I'm sorry that I got a temper. I'm sorry that I'm moody. I'm sorry that I can't tell you what the fuck is goin' on with me cause I don't even know. I'm sorry I'm too chickenshit to see my own son. I'm sorry I snorted cocaine at Scar's when you're tryin' to get knocked up.

Mary quickly swipes her cheek where a fleck of spit accidentally hit her before my thumb even reaches her. My thumb is still up in the air like a hitchhiker's, waiting for someone to open the door and take me in.

* * *

An idea lays an egg in my head. 20th Century Electric Co., most famous disco in Oklahoma. I hope it makes up for my attitude, the bombshell I dropped. The spit.

"You sure you wanna go dancing? Let's go home." She gives me a troubled glance and Mary turning down dancing is like Two-Bit turning down a Bud and a night of poor consequences, just doesn't happen.

"No." I say honestly as I open the door for her and reach for her hand. "But I need to let this day go," my thumb rubs tiny circles of sorry on her cheek.

I got a lot of secrets, parts of my life I keep compartmentalize, even from myself. One secret, I dig Disco. It ain't cool, I know Darry and Pony would bitch me 'til the cows come home, never mind Steve or Two-Bit. I pretend I hate it, but anything with a beat that keeps me moving, is good in my book.

Mary loves Disco. But again, Mary loves everything. She nearly broke the sound barrier and my grin when I surprised her with tickets to see The Sex Pistols over at Cain's. Real good show too.

The blue, green and reds light up underneath and all around us. Flashing lights and hard dance beats, it's the polar opposite of Scar's. It's crowded, that alone makes it opposite from Scar's barren wasteland. The crowd is mostly young, early-mid-twenties and there are people of all different races. Some are dressed for a night out on the town, girls in sparkled jumpsuits and evening gowns, guys in leisure suits and silk shirts. Lots of scarves.

The biggest difference is the smell. Desperation reeks out of Scar's like road kill. Here cologne and perfume hit before we even walk through the door.

On busy nights like this, you can't step more than a few feet without wearing someone's scent on you like a bad memory that won't let go.

People look at us, giving me the same uncertain glares I hand out like candy on Halloween ever since I came back from 'Nam. I don't blame 'em. Even though Mary done her best to clean me up, I still look like a deranged hitchhiker. Her magic with a comb and scissors only accentuates my eyes: hostile and lost.

They probably wonder why this cute little Mexican Tink who lights up the room with her firefly energy has a scuzzy redneck who looks like he's up to no good hanging on her. I wonder the same thing. Mary ignores them; her grin is so big the whole lit wall is reflected on her teeth. That her eyes narrow and nostrils flare like a lynx on the hunt when she grins only turns me on more.

I knew her mood would pick up once we got to the dance floor. Watching her go, her body pumping hard to the rhythm, her hair breezing through perfumed air, I have no idea how she does it. How she bounces back so quickly. How's she able to forget.

It ain't like she don't know the harsh side of life. She survived the worst thing that can happen to a woman. She told me that. I'm the only one outside her family who knows. She's the bravest person I know.

She ain't the most graceful or coordinated person, but when she dances, like everything in life, she goes for broke. My body is goin' for broke. Broken leg, broken back. It's older than me. My eyes feel ancient. Am I still in my twenties? Christ al'mighty.

She yanks me onto the center of the dance floor, running her hands down my chest, and shit if I ain't getting turned on just feeling her sharp fingernails scratch through my shirt and press into skin. Some time ago, I wouldn't be able to even go to the middle of the floor, but it ain't that bad now.

My mood is already lifted and that ain't the only thing when my wife reaches deep into my pockets and snakes down with the hottest slither 'til her mouth is right at zipper. "Glory," I mutter, what else is there to say?

As much as I adore Cathy and Aimee, there's no way I could be married to either one of 'em. Too normal. I need a woman with soul, fire and little bit of craze.

My wife thinks I'm the horniest guy she's ever met. She ain't wrong.

"Come on baby, you want to show these children what we got?"

A grin spreads across my face as once again I put on my mask, fasten it tightly to the hinges of my jaw and dance away the pain.

* * *

 _"Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in the land of dreams unreal hiding from reality…"_

I stumble over my two left feet and the shock Soda's left in his wake.

I'm standing back watching him, sweat cursing down my body. I wait for my heartbeat to settle down and find a fixed rhythm. Pushing what he told me in the car so far down in my mind they could dig it out in China. That's one of Soda's expressions he learned from his Daddy.

Isn't it a riot?

Then I see him. Though I've known him almost my entire adult life, when his eyes lock into mine, it's like the first time. Or, at least the first time since I got clean, since the very first time I saw him, I was half-baked. Anyways, an intense heat charges up and down my body.

I'm glad it's lady's night. I want everyone to see my man. To see us.

He drives me nuts in the best way. Watching Soda, I know that I'll always have my addictions; I just traded one addiction in for another.

 _What the hell was he thinking?_

I grab my hair by the fistful and it's not only Soda's charm that drives me nuts.

* * *

"Look honey, I'm gettin' it on," Soda's words stumble out of his mouth. So too do his legs and arms and he reaches for my hand, not in some sorta romantic gesture or nothing, but to keep his ass from falling down. His eyes spinning, he doesn't notice the cue-ball headed bouncer with his three neck rolls and tits bigger than Raquel Welch icing us with beady blues. Whether Soda don't notice because he's wasted or too distracted by lights, music and all the people, I haven't a clue.

"Yeah, you and Marvin Gaye, darlin'" I shot him a smirk as we're covered in sweat after a night of shaking, bumping, grinding and doin' everything but dry hump each other under the guise of 'dancing'.

Soda isn't the only one trying to forget.

I know his ass is drunk cause he scrunches up his nose and just says, "who?" before bursting out laughing like a half-crazed knows I'm crazy about Marvin. As oppose to being just plain crazy, and let's face it, I wear my craziness tighter than spandex pants whose asses shimmy off rhythm on the dance floor. I don't need the excuse of alcohol to make a fool out of myself, it comes natural. That and making the best damn banana cream pie in the universe. My secret? Pudding. Vanilla Pudding.

I shake my head and shout over the excited noise of other drunken revelers, "boy, you best not even think about dissing Miss. Patsy Cline or you're gonna find your own way home." I dangle the keys in front of his eyes, I always make sure to take his if I think he's gonna drink too much. I carry extra cash with me too, in case we need to get a cab. Now don't get me wrong, Soda ain't no lush. We're recovering junkies, but Soda's cute, skinny self can hold his liquor pretty damn well, until a rare blue moon moment where he can't. And even though I tried to keep an eye out for him, tonight the moon was turning a rather interesting shade of azure.

After I threatened to leave him he had the gall to chuckle even harder. He knows my threat is an idle one.

I give him the finger; and though I'm trying to scowl, my head has other ideas. It throws back and I let out a wide-open chuckle to limbo under his drunken one. That's the thing about Soda, even when he's annoying the fucking shit outta me, he usually makes me laugh. I can't stay mad at him.

"Come on ramblin' man, let's get you home."

He leans over, almost at a diagonal and exhaling cheap liquor and for the first time this night, a real honest carefree attitude, slurring his words and shouting, "I gotta woman… she's good to me!"

Fuck, he knows Ray Charles but not Marvin Gaye?!

* * *

The phone rings.

"Hello" Uncle says in English, "Hel lo, Hel lo" then there is a pause and he says it three more times in our language before hanging up.

Uncle is working on some paperwork, every now and then he asks me when Anna is coming home. He always calls Anna "your mother" in a really stuck up tone, he thinks it's rude I call her by her first name. Nobody gets why I call her by her name, not even the Americans. It's something special we have.

I'm drinking my slurpee except I waited too long and the ice has melted. Blue water tastes exactly like you expect. I'm in my Superman pajama top because Anna forgot to do laundry and it was the only halfway clean shirt I had to wear. I tried to do laundry on my own, dragging our clothing basket down to the basement, but I wasn't sure how to use those machines, we didn't have machines like that in Vietnam.

Uncle wanted her to do laundry in the bathtub, which I thought made sense, but Anna said if she was going to be forced to live in America she was at least going to take advantage of the modern conveniences. I felt weird the way she said 'forced' and I tried not to think that Anna doesn't want to be here in America, where part of my blood comes from.

Oh! Laundry detergent is the exact same shade of blue as the slurpee. Of course I'm not going to drink detergent, I'm not an idiot, unlike some of my classmates. That's just an observation. I like to notice little things.

Like when I went to school Hector kept on touching the part of his nose I punched, or that my teacher gave me this sad smile that looked nice on the outside but still made me feel like I was doing something wrong.

I don't really like my teacher, but I want her to like me so I smiled back at her. It's funny, I want the people I don't like to like me best.

"Could be the Communists?" I sit up, and the minute I say it, I feel like a fool. Uncle ignores me, which makes me feel even worse. He hugs the papers close to his chest, slamming Anna's door shut. No, he doesn't ignore me completely; he mumbles under his breath as walks past me.

I try to think about Uncle, how he lost his first family, how he had to leave his houseboy and housekeeper behind in Vietnam. I feel sorry for him, but it's getting harder and harder.

I look down at the bottom of my cup now stained blue and grin so big it hurts my face.

* * *

The inside of Soda's truck looks like a hurricane made love to a tornado and gave birth to blizzard. Before I can even get in I have to move the Styrofoam cups, the stained shirt, a carton of empty Chinese food and a note Soda wrote reminding himself to pay Spiderman's bill. Add a few cats and it looks like the hovel of a crazy cat lady off her meds. Which I guess makes me the crazy cat lady's wife, which all things considered, isn't the worst thing to be. Worst part of all is the stick shift. Soda taught me how to drive stick, like he taught me how to shoot a gun (though he helpfully suggest I not aim at his head) and even how to use a bow and arrow.

Soda's awfully cute when he's drunk. Once he's asleep.

I turn the radio on, softly at first, but when I hear " _What's Going On_ " I get an idea.

Soda awakens with a jolt.

"Can't take the heat, huh, ol…" I love teasing Soda about how his white ass needs some soul, when he cuts me with a look so sharp and painful it feels like barbed wire are slashing into my eyeballs. "Turn that fuckin thing off." His voice is harsh whisper. The eyes that meet mine are on fire, scorching right through me. Soda can set me on fire in a million different ways and it's a fire I'm more than willing to douse myself. But there are times when he burns. Long ago a look like that woulda scared me stupid, but I know Soda.

I'm dumbfounded. I know get smelling salts. Then my acerbic tongue and I slip under Marvin's smooth sound and really listen to the lyrics, "Father, father, We don't need to escalate, You see, war is not the answer." I think of Soda in the war and my stupid guilt is a never ending drumbeat through my heart.

It ain't even like the lyrics are even complicated, it's right there. Plain as the pain on Soda's face. The song is all about the war. Soda's war. I want to cry, not out of humiliation but because I hurt Soda. But Soda, the way only he can, looks at me and his eyes soften and a sad smile slowly spreads across his gorgeous face. Even bombed Soda still turns me into Niagara Falls.

"It's my fault, I'm sorry." The worst part is that he believes it.

I quickly reach for the radio dial, but Soda places his hand tight over mine.

"It's okay."

He's lying. But I'll pretend to believe him. It's the least I can do. Besides, haven't I always been a girl living in the land of the unreal?

* * *

"Holy tits, you were wasted last night."

Mary never takes God's name in vain, but she says holy tits so often I'm beginning to think it's a lost disciple. As she explains it, tits are wonderful and so is everything holy. A fuckin' men.

She ain't like no one I've ever met: curses like a sailor, parties hard, fucks even harder and is truly in love with God.

She irons out my pride and place in her world by tellin' me flat out I'm second to Jesus to her.

 _"Yeah, you just make sure it's Jesus the son of the God and not Jesus Diaz down at the motorcycle shop," I pronounce the 'J' with an 'H' the way they do in Spanish. Took me some time to figure that one out, Mary still teases me 'bout it; though she don't know more than a half-dozen words in Spanish herself._

 _She reminded me of my manners by casually knocking my feet off our coffee table._ _Her hand covered her mouth like she had a big secret, "oh, no, Diaz is comin' over later tonight, figure we can have ourselves an orgy. You like being on the bottom or top?" She bats her eyelashes._ _I playfully slap her ass and pulled her in tight. In an underground whisper that wobbled between parody and dead eyed seriousness told her; "woman, I ain't sharing you with nobody."_

 _She only turns to me, her eyes bright and her mouth sassy._

 _"That's funny, ain't that just what Diaz told me last night …" She cracked up which got me to laugh and pushed her tongue deep into my mouth and at the edge of my throat._ _My past is a knife. Some memories barely leave a scratch while others cut to the bone. I pull her off me. "Don't." My voice nails shock to her face._

 _"Holy Tits Soda! You know I'm just joking bout Diaz" her voice is trying to coax a dumb wild animal back in his cage._ _I know my wife wouldn't mess around on me. That ain't the reason shame and anger run through my throat._

 _I look at Mary, then look away cause I'm hurting her and she has no idea why. "I'm goin' to bed." And I carried that hurt, confused look she gives me long after my head hits the pillow._

* * *

Despite the headache giving me hell, I laugh with my wife. I roll over on my side, the sun is blinding this time of morning. At least I think it's morning. Now I get what Manford Mann was gettin' at when he rambled about being 'blinded by the light.' Fuck, wasn't I supposed to call Darry? I yawn away my care and yank the pillow over my ears and watch Mary pray the sorrowful mysteries. I think it's the sorrowful mysteries, could be the glorious mysteries. What day is it? But it doesn't matter what day it is, Mary always starts and ends with prayers.

In the harsh purgatory morning light, there's a sorta halo broken by the tree branches and blinds that form around her head. I trace the veil on her Virgin Mary tatted arm. I believe in God cause, well I always believed in God, but I am a Christian, lousy as I am, because of Mary Hernandez Curtis.

"Honey, I gotta confession. I made a real bad mistake."

* * *

"Do your brothers know?" My voice is still in shock and I guess Soda thinks I'm calm because he takes his sweet ass time, his eyes search and his lips move, as if trying to remember what we both know.

"Pony does, Darry might, if Pony told him. So, yeah, Darry knows." His lips turn up slightly. His is smile is like forbidden captnip and my claws come out.

"And how exactly does lil' bro know all 'bout your 'bad mistake?" I imitate his country wise-ass southern drawl even though my voice is too raspy and guttural and I'm too hot tempered to pull it off.

"I told him." He answers me straight on, his eyes don't leave mine.

"What's the big deal?" and he has the nerve to ask me this like he really don't know. It's a bunch of bullshit. Soda may not be educated, but when it comes to people he's a fucking Einstein and I'm a damn open book."It was one time, honey." His voice is calm but condescending. But maybe it's only how I'm hearing it.

I struggle to keep my temper under my bra as I pull one bra strap over my shoulder. Maybe Soda doesn't know me as well as he thinks, it's not the drugs that are bothering me; not really, it's that he didn't come to me first. "I'll tell ya _what's goin' on_ , Soda Curtis. You ain't married to Ponyboy. I'm your wife. I should be the one you tell your secrets too, not your brother." I shake my ring finger in front of his face as if I need to provide him with the physical evidence. My voice is burning through the roof. I have no idea how people have arguments and keep calm.

"I'm tellin' you right now." Soda's voice is eerily reasonable. It's as if someone sucked Soda out of his body and replaced him with a robot. I hate when he does it, I like him better when he goes for broke, even when he gets mad, at least I feel like he's being honest.

But the calmer he is, the longer his ass grooves into our bed like an ant on a log, the more I want to claw into him. "You shoot smack while enjoying your trip down the white brick road, Scarecrow Man? How 'bout some…" I can't stop myself. My mouth always shoots first and leaves me behind to count the causalities later. Now I don't know why I'm angry, I rarely do, but I am.

"No. I didn't." He cuts me off. His voice is low and there's a slight shock in his tone that answers my question, but the way his eyes stay on me, getting angrier and angrier, I can't stop myself.

"Let me see. We don't hide anything from each other, do we Soda? Let me see."

And I need to see, I need to see.

He yanks up his sleeves, his eyes are like solar eclipses and I can hardly look into them. _"Look."_ And the way he looks at me, for a second it makes me feel that I was the one who confessed. Soda can do that. He can tell you straight out that he robbed you blind and make you feel like you should apologize to him.

All I see is skin, roughed only by work to provide me with a decent living and healed scars. Instinctively I want to reach out to touch them, to run my finger down the lines his veins rope. Soda is silent but his arms shout out the truth: I'm a crazy bitch.

"I believe you," I try to speak with the same cold robotic voice, but I can't. I can't hide myself. I'm not an open book, I'm a damn pop up. He gently unlocks my arms taking my hands into his and everything about him softens. His eyes are tender then remorseful. His 'bail me outta jail eyes' I call 'em.

"I'm sorry. I was having a bad day and there ain't no excuse, and I fucked up. I fucked _up_." He slams the last word down, trying to close this chapter. I want to close it too, I want to close this entire week. But the only thing that closes real tight are my arms.

"Please Mary, please darlin', forgive me. It won't happen again. I promise." His voice cracks like a little kid on the edge of puberty and there's something so desperate about his voice, about his need for my approval that I want to instantly forgive him.I tell myself that his sincerity is true blue and not my own wishes.

I nod and even though there's only a year between us, Soda's got a whole life on me. I want him; no need him, to make things better for me."I believe you," I say again, this time with all the conviction I got. I have to believe him, he's my husband, if I can't trust this man I've loved, screwed, fought, laughed and cried with for all of our roller coaster years than this marriage isn't worth the shriveled up heart I had given him the moment I fell for this ramblin' man.

He hides it, but I can see him take a small breath of relief and I don't know why, I don't know what makes me pour salt into healing wound, the only thing that I can think of is that I'm hurting a lot more than my heart will tell me."I'm tryin' to have a baby Soda, _your_ baby." And with a calmness that don't come easy, I walk out of the bedroom. My bra straps fall off my shoulders.

* * *

As much as I want to push down my hurt and anger til they sag to the car floor like a pair of dried up pear shaped tits; it hits me again like a dime bag thrown at 90 miles per and tears turn my face red and splotchy. My nose is stuffed. My mascara runs down my face like over-sized melted spiders from a horror film. _He wanted to see her._

 _"Dammit_ _Soda!"_ I scream into the space in the steering wheel and in the rearview mirror catch another spider making her way down.

* * *

I'm a bloodhound for the knocked up. Put me any place and I can sniff out a pregnant woman anywhere. It's a real talent I got. Put me on Carson's. I can teach Ed how to make a banana cream pie while I'm at it.

By the time I get to Winn-Dixie my spiders have turned into raccoon eyes and from a distance I look some ol' man's battered ol' lady. Lucky I got enough makeup in my purse to save the day. I cake on so much makeup I look like Mardi Gras's drag queen fairy godmother come to life with my frosted face and heavy green eye shadow. Is there such a thing as too much eye shadow? I think not.

I put my eggs and milk on the conveyor belt. Sheila is the checkout girl. I haven't been to this Winn-Dixie for a while, and Sheila, bulged around the middle is glowing like a ripened peach.

Help me. I silently pray. Help me, Jesus. Please. I want to be better.

I look at Sheila and with my biggest smile, and in a voice loud enough to trick my feelings that are more complicated than I'm willing to deal with, exclaim loudly "congratulations girl! When are you due, honey?"Her face turns diaper rash pink and in a voice so soft I have to lean over to hear it, "uh, I'm not having a baby."

* * *

"What's going on with the kid?" I got to remind myself that he's talkin' about my kid and not Pony. I always appreciated how Steve hatchets through the bullshit to get to the point.

I sigh, "I'm tryin' to figure it out."

His brows furrow and he looks at me like I'm speaking gibberish, "what's to figure out?"

"This whole Anna thing, I don't want to scare her" again, I think, but don't say. "The whole thing between me and his mother is complicated." I snort, 'complicated' didn't begin to half describe it. Problem is, neither could I. It wasn't like my mind was workin' on all cylinders to begin with, but when it came to Anna and our fight, the whole reason she took my son away from me, was a black hole.

"You need to forget about whatever happened. It was war, you weren't yourself. There's nothing you could have done that woulda justified the way she fucked you, man. You shove her around a few times? That don't give her the right to take your kid."

Anger and loyalty are two strings on the same guitar for Steve and sometimes he wields his guitar like a damn boulder bashing in all common sense and decency. I never doubt that he always has my back, but I don't need him pourin' salt into a wound I ain't ever sure I caused in the first place.

"Steve," he knows me long enough to know he crossed a line, "shut the fuck up." My voice is low, hot and it weren't Steve, violent.

My eyes shut into the black, "I would never hit the mother of my child." What sort of man needs to convince himself?

"I know." He says with the loyalty that if he were a woman would ink my name to his forearm.

"I wouldn't hit a wo..."

 _Black shirt wrapped around bug sized tits, black wide eyes begging, black hair lying against blackened earth._

* * *

"So it was really Pony that found out about Patrick, huh?"

I grin up at my life long friend.

"You've got to get him a better set of wheels."

* * *

Even though Soda's not home I lock the bathroom door and in my black leotards, pink leopard print shirt and green eyelids climb into the bathtub and cry and cry and cry. I cry so much my eyes sting and turn puffy and red. I cry until my face is dyed green.

"When are you due?"

I'm a damn loudmouth fool.

It's not just the thing with Sheila, it's everything, it's Anna, it's me and if I'm honest, it's Soda. It's so damn hard.

* * *

"You weren't yourself" I play Steve's line on repeat as I get into my car. How many times have I heard that before? How many times has my craziness, my meanness been justified by people tellin' me that I wasn't myself? How the fuck do they know? Maybe that's who I am. I catch my face in the rearview mirror and for a second so split I don't think it exists, I see not my face, but the face of a little boy in Oklahoma City.

I'm his father. That's who I am.

* * *

"Sorry babe," I hand her the smashed up eye shadow case I accidentally sat on.

She takes a deep breath and I can tell that whatever she's about to say is difficult for her, and I want to encourage her, but in this moment the best thing I can do is to sit still and wait for her.

"I love you Soda. I love you more than I loved anyone, more than I'll ever love anyone, but you got to be straight with me. No more secrets."

I want to tell her everything, everything. But I can't. I love her too much and if I'm straight, I love us too much. She fishes the good out of me, the part of me that wants to protect her from all hurts, even when, especially when, I'm the cause.

I look into her eyes, coal black, but coal that warms you up in the dead of winter.

* * *

I don't know why, maybe it's cause Soda and I were living on the road for so long, but I always feel that we open up more when we have wheels under our feet. Not to mention pot in our bodies, but that's a different and much more fun, story.

"You think it's nuts I heard my dad's voice?"

"He wasn't tellin' you to pull a Squeaky Fromme or nothing?"

"Who was that again?"

"Never mind baby. No, I don't think it's weird. I think it's real nice."

"Do you believe it happened?"

"Of course I do."

"I wonder sometimes why I've never heard my mom's voice?"

* * *

Soda heads to bed and I head to the bathroom. I look at my plastic fully bulged Mary looking at me.

I got this little figurine a while ago. It freaked Soda out.

 _"You're telling me my big, strong, warrior hubby is all shaking his tits over a lil figurine?" I teased._

 _Soda shook his head, "I don't need the Mother of God watching me piss."_

 _I went to take the garbage out, when I came back; she was already nailed to the bathroom door._

 _"Guess I'll just be closin' my eyes every time I take a shit," Soda said with a grin._

I look up at Mary, her gaze is so loving and compassionate and I know God's presence is with me and I feel a deep soothing loves me. Crazy, can't shut her mouth Mary. That thought alone brings a set of joyful ones pouring down my cheeks like tiny floods.I'm not a little girl. Honey, I'm not even the same woman I was when Soda and I met at the Greyhound station. I need to act like it.

I hate feeling sorry for myself, for complaining and moaning like a banshee. That's not me. I take the bull by the horns or whatever body part presents itself and as long as it don't hurt nobody, I get what I want.

And what I want, is a baby.

* * *

I grab my guitar, oh yeah I learned to play from one of the Jesus Freaks we hitched to for a while. Can still play "Stand Up for Jesus" by heart. Though how many times we had to play that song on some cold night they shoulda called it "Sit down and freeze your ass up for Jesus."

I'm naked cept for my underwear and socks and the guitar is cool against my skin. My mouth is over stuffed with the last bite of peanut butter and mayo sandwich. I strum and the tune is familiar, but it's not until a few more chords that I realize what I'm playing.

 _Mother, mother there's too many of you crying._

Mary walks in our bedroom, a full smile on her face."It's time Soda. I'm ready." Her grin is as big as a mansion with all the lights on; but her voice is as self-assured and serious as I'd ever heard from her."I'm ready to see a doctor and talk about having a baby. I want a baby Soda, I want your baby. Our baby." She takes my hand and holds it between her palms.I think of my wife carrying my baby and I think of my oldest son, safe and alive, and for the first time since I found out about my son, I'm happy.

My son.

And I know what I need to do.

* * *

I stroke my fingers along the wood of Patrick's violin. I miss Patrick when he's at school, but I crave this time to myself. The phone rings and I dread answering it, but it might be Patrick's school.

My hand slips around the receiver.

 _"Chào Anna"_

* * *

 ** _Anyone still awake?! I always have this goal to write tighter as they say, and I end up writing some 10,000 word chapter! So I'm especially grateful for everyone who reads this story, who has given it (and is giving it) and chance, who leaves reviews. It means so much to me._**

 ** _I don't own anything. 20th Century and Cain's are real places; the description of 20th Century is based on an article/my imagination although unfortunately I couldn't find pictures. The Sex Pistols played Cain's in January 1978_**

 ** _I don't even like banana cream pies. ;)_**


	17. Chapter 17

"Look at you, like Cary Grant in his prime."

Cool to the touch, Cathy's fingers wrap around the nape of my neck sending an electric current to the base of my spine. My jaw cracks as her fingers move down my tie.

"This shouldn't work on me but it does."

"Well, I'm glad because it's absolutely true. Are you nervous?" She begins to button my jacket.

"Aww, I can do that, I'm not an invalid." Never mind that my entire body is weighted with expectation and stress and I couldn't move her hand if my life depended. "A bit."

"You shouldn't be, look around…" Shoulders knotted from a restless night I look around at my office. She's right. Every carpeted square inch paid off in years of working my ass off, in the sacrifices we both made. This is ours and if we made it this far why couldn't we, why _shouldn't_ we have more?

Cracking open the blinds the morning rush roars below.

Downtown- there's not much in the way of major skyscrapers, least not to the extent of a New York or Chicago. Tulsa's claim to fame is the Williams built in imitation of a single Trade Tower in New York. You might even call that a metaphor of some sort.

Cathy's skimming through my copy of " _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ " which is one of those books I'd expected to read a long time ago, but never did until she bought it for me.

Her quick paced eyes outlined in heavy brown eyeliner, her slightly ajar wet ruby lips and her skirt short and tight hugs her body. I want to influence her out of that skirt.

"That shouldn't work on me, but it does." She gives me a wink and carefully puts the book back.

"You heard that."

With feigned spontaneity she kicks off her shoes. Sitting on my desk, my fingers rub the inside of her thigh and move up as her knee bends into my calf muscle. Where I expect panties I feel her warm and wet inside my grip. I sure as hell ain't complaining but I swear I saw her put on a pair of blue underwear this morning. She gives me a pointed look and then down as blue silk shakes down her legs and down to her feet…

"Goddamnit!" For some Godforsaken reason I'm meeting with someone who has my future, _my family's_ future in his hands wearing crud caked work boots. _Okay. Get your shit together Darrel_. _Just go home and get a pair of shoes_. It's not exactly being caught with no pants on but how do I prepare for this meeting and not have the right shoes on? "Sorry." I grab a Kleenex to wipe my hands.

"Don't go."

"What?" She stops me cold. "That investor's gonna be here in few hours."

"But Darrel, have you forgotten?" Her smile flirts but her eyes mean business. " _I'm_ your investor."

Her mouth is not even closed with the door swings open.

Lisa's our secretary. Me and the three guys I share this suite with. We share her. Christ. Not like that. Least not by me, I don't know or quite frankly care what anyone else does. Once I was serious about Cathy, once she was serious about me, there's been no one else.

She works a few hours each day for all of us. In exchange for a living wage we get a competent person to type and help organize appointments and answer phones. It's the American Dream.

"Mr. Curtis should I…" Lisa's eyes make a beeline for the door, though her voice holds steady.

"Don't go." My hand raises covered in specks of crumpled white Kleenex, still moist with my wife, fly in my secretary's direction.

I'll deny it to my dying day but with Lisa standing off to the side with my wife in front of me, I lean into Cathy. "You said you want to invest in me."

The look that follows tells me that doesn't expect any return on her investment.

Followed by my own, 'just kidding' smile that wouldn't trick a blind man.

My back turned, I walk up to Lisa to tell her that she can leave when I hear the distinct ping of an airborne plastic button hitting the fan's metal guard.

Cathy rips open her blouse. _She's game for this._ I help her out of her bra and in no time with Lisa standing there my clothes join her crumpled on the floor.

We fuck on my desk. Papers fly everywhere.

We got at it hard. Holy Fuck. _Cathy_ goes at it hard. You marry someone and slowly you find out all about them: her all-time favorite book is _My Antonia_ , she loves wine on a weekend afternoon and she'll allow me fuck her to hell and back- if there's someone watching.

But it's not Cathy that making me fuck like there ain't no tomorrow. It's that woman in my peripheral vision. Her body withering and contorting, the short moans. I can make her cum without even looking at her.

The wet haze turns untextured and black before my eyes open into Cathy's sleeping back.

* * *

"Pony, I can't hear, you're mumbling." He replies with another incoherent mumble that even with the receiver pressed into my ear drum I can't make out.

"The baby with you?" On instinct, my tone softens and I smile. With everything that happened since we came home I've forgotten all about my niece.

"Nah, Aimee's got her, they're visiting her mom, I think they're gonna visit a crystal shop that Aimee's got her mind set on. They have a sale on amethyst and celestite wands." He says this like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I love her, she's family, course I love her. But I don't understand how anyone with her brains can buy into that woo-woo crap.

"So what the hell is amesth.."

"A _meth_ yst. I don't know…" _Liar_. "She thinks it may be good for insomnia."

"Told ya that baby was goin' to fuck your sleep six ways from Sunday, welcome to the club."

"Yeah, I don't think it's the baby, I don't, I mean, it ain't bad. Honestly not really bothering me at all. Got a lot of writing done this week, I mean more shit than I've written in the past month."

"Whoa, slow down, you're talkin' a mile per minute. It ain't bad but your wife is picking up crystals for this insomnia that's not bothering you? Y'all have abhorrence to doctors up there?"

"Yes Darry. That's why I do rain dances every time I get a headache. It works wonders. Relax. If it gets worse, I'll see a doc. But honestly Dar I haven't been able to write like this for months. Oh yeah, sorry for mumbling, still eating a late lunch."

"That better not be a moose burger. Karen and C.D. are gonna have an apocalyptic meltdown if they find out you went there without 'em. Great fries though. What's that stuff they put on it?"

" _Poutine_." He sounds out slowly. I roll my eyes. "If you're missing Maple Burger that much Dar, I can sing you the jingle, want me to sing it to you?"

Hell no. Though unlike Soda, Pone can carry a decent tune.

"That sounds like a threat."

"Ohhh you can have a walrus, you can have a goose, but my golly I want a Moose,' So how was that?"

"My middle fingers are giving you a standing ovation." But I laugh. My brother's good mood, weird as it is, weird as he is, makes me happy. "You're nuts, you know that?"

Much as I like shooting the breeze, there's a reason I'm making this long distance call.

"You know about Soda and Anna?" Pony cuts in.

"Yeah, that's why I wanted to touch base. Course I figure Soda would've filled you in already. He's ecstatic."

"This is good news, right? She's agreeing to meet with him. I'm sure it's going to awkward at first, for both of them but this is good news Darry." That after everything that Ponyboy Curtis can still be so hopeful amazes me.

I don't know what to say to that. Despite things breaking my way this past year, I hold onto optimism the way my mother and other survivors of the Depression held on to loose change, in sock drawers and ice boxes, rarely touched.

"She should think about Patrick, he has a right to see his dad." The force in his in voice is rooted in being Paige's father as much as Soda's brother. After five years I know it anywhere.

* * *

" _Come and join us! It's been ten years!"_

The invitation for my high school reunion screams with unrestrained enthusiasm -or ridicule next to the invitation to a friend's wedding and Karen's kindergarten registration form -that I still need to sign. When did I become the mom of a kindergartner?

 _When did I become the sister of a mental patient?_

Underneath everything I'm still floating inside that moment when we found out that his brilliant mind is now his enemy, our enemy. And all my memories are being reshuffled and what I thought was evidence of his brilliance, maybe all that was nothing more than the early stages of his illness.

I don't know where his Schizophrenia ends and he begins.

Underneath the papers I touch the spiral memo pad, filled with everything I can find on Schizophrenia, which isn't a whole lot.

My throat tightens but nothing happens and as much as I want to cry again, because I know it's not good to keep everything bottled up. I cried with Darrel at the hospital and then later when we got home, burying my face in his chest until his shirt felt like a damp cloth against my face. Now nothing comes.

 _And when we we're children… he held my hand as we floated higher and higher on the swings and he told me he saw the face of God, was that part of his delusions? Was God part of his illness?_

 _Is He still?_

"Are you cold, Mommy?"

"What? No honey." Quickly straightening up and smiling until my cheeks hurt, my daughter stares into my reflection.

We're nurses, chauffeurs, drill sergeant and secretaries. But being a mom means being an actress. Always being on stage and under the sometimes unforgiving spotlight.

"Your dresser is messy."

On instinct, my hands cover the notebook, almost knocking over my bottle of Charlie, protecting her from a family inheritance I'm now on guard for the way I used to be of guard for chicken pox and stomach bugs; but her eyes are only on her registration form.

"This says that 'Karen C. Curtis is to be en…en…en…"

"Enrolled, honey," I offer tiredly, leaning over her shoulder.

"En-ROLLED in kindergarten on Sep-tem-ber, September 1st, 1978!" Her high pitch voice booms and it gives me a welcomed jolt.

"You're excited?!" I run my fingers through my daughter's hair, feeling her head against the pads of my fingers. Now I miss braiding her long hair. Now her hair is shorter than my oldest son. Mental note: C.D. needs a haircut.

"Yup, Oh! Can you draw on my back? You're really talented at that."

She makes a running leap onto the foot table, jumping off it and plopping down face first into our bed, her head landing a bit too close to the headboard.

"Be careful," I admonish with a grimace over what sounds like a cat being skinned with piano wire and my daughter's giggles. Mental note: check to see if we need a new mattress.

"Do you want gum?" She turns and hands me a stick of Big Red as I finish tracing her name through her thin cotton shirt. "It's my last one," she adds magnanimously.

"Thanks, where'd you get it?"

"My boyfriend," my five year old going on fifteen year old casually informs me.

"Oooh your _boy_ -friend?! Well look at you missy, aren't you all grown up." I tickle her and in between her laughter I'm trying to figure out who this little boy could be a drawing a blank.

"He's always swallowing his gum. I told him not too. Daddy put our swing set back together. He's gonna come over and we're going to play on it." I don't want to think about that night. Mental Note: Call my parents. Again.

The artificial cinnamon tingles inside my cheeks until they feel almost raw. Mental note: add cereal to the weekly grocery list.

Leaning in, her hair smells like flowers. "Your hair smells so pretty Karen."

"Thank you, it's my new shampoo;" my little girl says in a voice that sounds so grown up, and I guess it is, in a few months it's going to belong to a kindergartner. And she has a boyfriend.

That's another change, Karen is no longer using the 'baby shampoo' she insists on 'real shampoo' the reason - she liked the color of the bottle.

Her hand on top of mine, she looks down at the silver foil wrapped like a ring…around her middle finger. "Do you like my ring?"

"I love it," and I smile and toss my gum into the wastebasket.

"I'm a good reader, right Mommy?"

"You're an excellent reader."

Karen turns to me, concerned "Am I the best reader? Kindergarten is a very big word."

Inside, my eyes roll to the back of my head. It's like looking at a younger version of myself. This is how it is. You give birth to a completely new wonderful human being, exited and frightened by all the possibilities and voila they end up carbon copies of you anyways.

I shouldn't mope. Karen is the most conscientious child on earth; she's my child who will make sure everyone is included. Her teachers always compliment how she's the first one to volunteer to help clean up. She cares about everyone. I just wish for her sake she could have inherited all of my good qualities and none of my bad ones. But it doesn't work that way.

She really is an excellent reader. I think it's because Darrel and I read to the kids, or at least try, almost every night. Or maybe it has nothing to do with us. Maybe kids become who they are for better or worse without their parents' influence. With more vigor than necessary, I erase my markings.

There's a lot that I should be saying: that she doesn't need to be the best, or even telling her that I couldn't read until I was seven, but I'm tired and take the easy way out.

"You're my very best reader in the entire world!" I enthuse, hoping it satisfies as I give her a squeeze.

Karen pulls a strand of hair behind her ear. She has my face but her daddy's eyes: demanding, intelligent and kind, "you're a _very_ good reader too."

* * *

"Now what's this class again? We're Fox Trotin' to Coltrane?"

"No!" I laugh as my knuckles lightly hit his muscled forearms and stay there. "I already explained it to you, it's…"

"Jazzercise is exercise with a beat!" This is how Robyn, our instructor, decked out in navy blue and mint green leotards and frosted blonde hair explains it.

My husband, who at thirty-three still looks like he can out pass, punt, throw and tackle any college football player, or at least in Division AA and lower football player, stands out even more in his boxy frame, sweats and t-shirt. I wish he wore a tighter shirt. He looks good in black. His stomach muscles are still flat as pressed iron. Mine aren't quite there yet, but taking a ridiculously long look in the mirror I decide that _we_ look really good.

It took longer than I wanted it too, but I finally feel confident wearing skin tight leotard. My body is mine again.

And you know what? I love this so much. There's sweat running down my face from a surprisingly intense warm up, my leotards are starting to itch, the _Saturday Night Fever_ soundtrack blasts through the room, and with Darrel's strong hands holding firm on my hips I'm in heaven.

While Robyn is having us do some cool down stretches Darrel, not a single hair out of place, leans over and whispers in my ear, "this is forty-five minutes of my life I ain't never getting back."

"Not with that attitude you won't."

"Least I got a nice view," he says with a woolfish whisper as he stares at my behind, takes a discreet glance around us and… oh my gosh did he just _slap_ my behind?

* * *

Absentmindedly my fingers run alongside my little boy's chubby cheeks. It helps puts him to sleep, though it's not doing the trick today, which means he'll be extra cranky when we get home. Which means I'll be extra cranky when we get home.

On the other hand, I'm beat and this overstuffed plush armchair is getting more and more comfortable by the minute. I am trapped inside an inverse rose, with its deep rose carpets and woven forest green walls and ceiling. From other angles it reminds me of a Victorian gothic with its mahogany tables, gold plated mirrors and propriety.

"Hi! Hi! Hi!" He waves at his reflection. He's not quite old enough to recognize himself (least according to the development books) but he's just the cutest thing you'll ever see when he thinks he sees a new friend staring back at him. He's definitely the happiest baby in the entire world which makes me feel that I'm doing something right.

"Look at you Bubba, you still got whip cream all over your neck," I coo, kissing on the nape of his neck, his giggles sound like little bubbles popping in the air. I take a quick peek at his diaper to make sure his mouth really was the source of those sounds.

"Why he's adorable! I could eat him up, _Catherine."_

Dear God. That voice. The polite yet condescending way she stretches out my first name. I can't tell if she's greeting an old friend – or beckoning a server for another martini.

She's sits across from me, in a cream and green tailored skirt and top with black piping accenting the collar. Her blonde hair waves at her shoulder and frames a face vibrant, youthful and gorgeous.

I look down at her black high heel pumps.

Not that I'm noticing.

Besides my baby I'm wearing the bare bones of what the Club dress code allows me to get away with: khaki skirt and white and blue cotton striped blouse. Strands of my post jazzercise hair lunge and stretch across my face.

"Vickie?!"

"It's so nice to see you!" I say in an overly cheery voice partially out of politeness and to be perfectly honest partially out of a glass of wine. I swear, I'm not usually like this.

"Catherine, it's lovely to see you here," and I don't miss the surprise in her voice. "And little Bubba, what a rustic and original name."

"William-we call him Billy." Does she really think I would name my son _Bubba?_

We both sit down, me trying not to sink into the armchair, Vicki sitting in the Queen Anne style chair.

I can't help the self-satisfaction when I see the waiter return with a martini. "May I get you anything else, Mrs. Washburn?"

The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it.. Honestly it sounds like the name of a character in my new Danielle Steel, so maybe that's where I know it from.

Vickie Washburn, nee Harper, shakes her head. "Maybe my friend would like something?"

Barry turns to me, "yes, Mrs. Curtis?"

I stammer not knowing what I want, or if I want anything, but before I can tell Barry I'm good, my mouth has a different agenda, "I'll have what she's having."

Vickie is too polite to show her feelings on her face, but I see the way her eyebrows raise slightly when Barry calls me Mrs. Curtis.

"How is Ponyboy?" And I don't miss that tone she uses, condescending, arrogant and self-satisfied.

I adjust my posture which is hard to do since the baby is antsy now, bored with my lap and gunning to make a move for it. I feel bad for him being stuck here. I feel worse for me. "I'm not married to Ponyboy…I married _Darrel_ Curtis." And dear Lord, I can more than meet her condescension, arrogance and airs tone for tone. Worst of all? It's natural.

Then I think of Darrel's brother, my brother-in-law, my friend whom I love. I feel queasy and it's not from the wine. I can't even enjoy Vickie's eyes expand and her jaw drop slightly at the thought that I married King Football. (Wait, did she even know my husband? I try to figure out if they overlapped in school).

And when do I ever refer to Darrel as King Football? Or King anything?

"That's wonderful," she adds with almost businesslike dismissal. I manage to hide my smirk. Then she leans towards me and with a conspiratorial whisper, "but what's going on with Ponyboy? After all that unfortunate trouble he got into, when I heard that he went to federal prison I was…"her hand is still on her heart when I cut her off. You don't talk this way about my loved ones like that. And if we're being honest, Ponyboy never went to federal prison like you see in documentaries but to minimum security work camp. Of course it wasn't for a crime; at least not anything that _I_ think should be illegal. He stood up for what he believed in.

"He's doing fantastic, Vickie, thank you so much for asking. He has a _gorgeous_ wife and the most beautiful baby girl you'd ever set your eyes on. They live up in Canada." I cringe at the last part, because I'm sure Vickie is thinking that he's there as a fugitive.

I also cringe at 'gorgeous wife.' Not least because I know Vickie doesn't believe me. Aimee is beautiful, but my younger self who read Betty Friedan and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and wrote essays on Georgia O'Keeffe is wondering why I didn't add ' _and_ smart.'

Her smile reeks of condescension. It should drive me to take my baby and walk out, but all it does is motivate me to pull out a snapshot. I want her to see Ponyboy see how happy he is, see his wife and daughter and I want her to know that Ponyboy Curtis made it. That one day we're going to see his books in the library and bookstores.

She glances at the picture, her smile is a piece of plastic left out in the sun too long. I feel horrible using my in-laws to score points when I should be far above that. But right now, I'm barely above a splitting headache.

"What a beautiful little family, absolutely lovely, and how nice that Ponyboy is looking so… _robust_ these days. Remind me dear, now he's the one who used to run track, correct?"

 _Is she calling him fat?_

I'm ready to claw back. I've never been afraid to speak my mind. Yet standing up, looking out at the manicured lawn and back at Vickie Harper, perfectly made up and as big as a B (I refuse to call any woman, even someone like Vickie that word) as she was in high school, all I can do is laugh.

"That's right, he used to run track…" I took acting classes and joined the drama club; I know the importance of a dramatic, well placed pause, "dear."

Though I loathe the word and all it represents, I can sure sound like a bitch when I want to.

We see my husband talking to a man in a warm colored suit. You would never know this by first glance, but Darrel is actually quiet. But with his perfect posture and direct eye contact he oozes such confidence. He belongs. They shake goodbye and spotting me and Billy he flashes a proud grin as he waves. My son is a like a tornado in my arms and I'm laughing, his little behind wiggling two steps behind as he runs like a baby Frankenstein towards his dad.

" _Get_ …" but I don't need to say anything, with quick reflexes he swoops in and catches Billy before our son goes head first into a table. He kisses him on the forehead. " _That's_ my husband."

* * *

It's hard not to sweep Cathy away and tell her my news. That I might have a potential business investor and if I get this loan approved… But Cathy is talking a woman she knew in high school and so I extend my hand and pretend that polite conversation is what I want to do.

Most of the membership of Tulsa skews young, though I guess that term is relative since at age 33 and 27 we only qualified for 'junior' membership. There are a lot of families with kids, a lot of transplants up from Houston and Dallas. The real blue bloods, the old oil families, belong to Southern where membership costs more and is even more restricted.

I'm nodding through a conversation I'm barely paying attention too when my son reaches across and grabs Mrs. Washburn's breast. The kid's got one hell of a grip.

"Ball!" He squeals. We're working on vocabulary.

* * *

Karen and C.D. are sitting on my lap. Asleep. A copy of _Frog and Toad_ on the side table, it was Karen's turn to pick our book. My throat's parched from my Toad impression. Karen loved it. C.D. didn't. My son is already reading. It's amazing, watching this kid pick up a book he never even heard of before and read like that. When I praised him he just shrugged like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And that doesn't even begin to describe his imagination which is already more complex and convoluted, than anything I could come up with. He's so damn smart.

Course our kids are smart, but it's a whole other ballgame seeing proof of it.

Two of my babies are snuggled in my lap so it's good as a time as any to ruminate on that sleazy dream. There's no downtown office. Someday, but right now my office is a trailer on site. Concrete, steel with a glass tip the building of my dream pops back into my head. Course it's shaped like a cock. Christ, Freud would roll his eyes at this shit. No secretary either. Not even one I share. Though points for some semblance of reality. Do I even need to say Cathy wouldn't have sex in front of anyone?

Physics alone would make the speed and arc, not to mention the sheer liquid volume of the squirting impossible.

Of course all this is nothing but a lame excuse to not deal head on what's really going on. I'm not one of those guys who actually brags about being faithful. What? You want a medal for not being a jackass? But I had no desire even in my dream of fucking anyone but Cathy.

But what is real is this: the feeling of power in making another woman cum without even touching her. To dominate without a single glance.

My daughter starts to stir, but she only shifts a bit and falls back asleep. It's past their bedtimes. I should feel settled. But with my kids heads against my chest I only feel weighted down. I don't know how to be happy. Put me in a situation where I have to fight just stay above water and I'm good. Give me a wife, three healthy kids, my family reunited, a fucking country club membership and I'm lost.

And if I fuck up now it wouldn't be the first time.

The light from the garage hits my truck. It's dark and quiet except for C.D.'s light snoring. My eyes close. My thoughts go to a place dark and inviting in equal measures. I want to take off. To get in my truck and leave them all behind. My children's feet dig in like talons as I stand up and walk towards the window. The light flickers.

I'll put my children to bed and kiss them goodnight. I'll grab a few beers, watch T.V. and maybe Cathy will join me. And some night, maybe not tonight, but some night my eyes will close and I'll be back.

* * *

"Can you believe Vickie Harper?" I half laugh half sneer over running faucet water.

Darrel's eyes are still in his book when I step back into our bedroom, "hmmm, wild, huh?"

"Can you believe what she said about Billy?"

He looks up from his book, "what'd she say?" His voice is nonchalant, but his shoulders hunch up slightly. I love this about him, a father defending his cub.

"She implied he wasn't your son," it's ridiculous I know, but I'm more upset than I should be.

Naked, except for his underwear he bursts out laughing. Darrel is not the laugh out loud type of guy and so many times I yearned to hear that vibrant, expansive laugh that reminds me of English Leather, muscled forearms and tender masculinity burst out of him. This was not one of those times.

"How'd she manage to imply this?"

I throw up my arms like a caffeinated Mussolini in fuzzy slippers. "That whole remark about his hair?" He looks at me I'm speaking gibberish, which I guess to him I am. I wish I was wearing something other than my pink nightgown with lace and bows around the collarbone.

"About his hair being blonde and how unusual it is? You were there." I'm giving him an open invitation to join me in mocking her, but he shrugs and I can tell he's actually considering what Vickie said and Mr. Logic strikes again.

"It is uncommon; never would've thought Soda's son would have blonde hair." There's an involuntary and beautiful smile that comes so quickly when he says Soda's son, I don't think he's even aware of it.

I wish he didn't mention Patrick. Because all it does is make me realize how trivial this all is. Strangely, I think that's why I need to vent. There's so much upheaval, so much life altering changes that I want to have an evening at home where our biggest problem is an awkward run in at a country club.

Is that too much to ask?

"Thank you Dr. Mengele."

His face twists up like I've suddenly started to speak in Norwegian. "Mendel. Mengele was the Nazi doctor." Really Darrel? My husband is so intelligent; he's often the smartest person in the room; most of the time I love that about him, this was not one of those times. I grit my teeth. I should have known he had something to do with World War II. Darrel read just about every single World War II book out there. He loves battles.

"You know who I meant."

"All she said was that he's got blonde hair, this is what you're gettin' all worked up over?" He's not trying to sound condescending, but he is.

"That's the whole point. Why bother saying anything at all? And it was more than mention his hair, it was the way she looked at me, she looked at my ring when she mentioned it." Did he really not see it?

"She was probably blinded by the size of your rock," he drawls out in a deep, deadpan voice and I laugh.

We couldn't afford much, and for the past two years Darrel wanted to replace it with something bigger, but I refused. I don't want a fancy ring; I want the one my husband gave me.

"C'mere, come back to bed and talk to me." It sounds like an order and I know it's childish on my part but I refuse to budge. "Please." Ever the gentleman, he offers me a hand as I climb onto my side of the bed, still in my slippers, and fluff up my pillow.

"What's really going on with you? You're too smart to care about what this gal thinks or says." What's implied is that I'm stupid to care what Vickie thinks. I can't argue with that.

"Why haven't we taken a vacation?" My words surprise me as much as him.

"A vacation?" And I can tell he's wondering why the hell I interrupted his reading for all this. And I'm wondering what the heck's he's reading that's more important to him than what I have to say.

"George and Vickie just came back from Machu Picchu." I cringe, hoping that I don't sound as whiny as I'm sure I do.

"You want to go to Machu Picchu?" He sounds it out slowly as if discovering the English language for the first time.

"No! Yes! I don't know. Dammit Darrel, I want to have the option to go to Machu Picchu, and don't say we can't afford it."

"We can't afford it. You know that."

"But we can afford those country club dues?" I place my hand over the page he's been trying to sneak a peek at.

Moving my hand off, he shuts his book and moves it to his nightstand. "Haven't we talked about this before? We're part of that country club cause it's a good place to network."

"So is the local bar you don't go there." (Except to a few old neighborhood bars with friends of his, but this isn't a time for nuance.)

"Cause it's cheaper at the Piggly Wiggly."

"And how many of those people you schmooze with even consider you for bids?" My tone picks up.

Darrel sighs, and when he sighs, when he's this annoyed, it's not so much a sigh, but a grunt rising from deep inside his chest.

"I have a prospect meeting coming up. You know that."

"And I'm so proud of you," My smile is absolutely honest. I truly am proud. Some of Darrel's friends boast and tease (it's hard to tell the difference) about him 'making it' but only the two of us know just how much our income fluctuates on a quarterly basis based on the type of jobs Darrel gets, but the past year has been by and large good to us.

"I get it. But you can't get anything done in this town without kissing ass. That's the way the world works." I want us to be successful, but damn it I want to take a vacation too!

I circle back, "if we can save up money and afford to belong to that place we can afford to spend at least some of that money- _our_ money," I add pointedly reminding him of the paychecks I contribute to our household. "Heck, we deserve a vacation. You deserve a vacation." He does. No one works harder.

His body language softens while his brow scrunches ever so slightly and I can tell he's thinking, "it ain't Machu Picchu, but what about a weekend in Nashville? Soda says they usually have a special in the summer, we can pack up the kids…"

"Can't we just leave the kids here?" We are never without a potential babysitter.

"Pretty sure social services ain't gonna appreciate the idea, though I reckon Karen would do a decent job of watching them," he chuckles not picking up on my dead serious tone.

"Can you not make jokes right now?"

"What about Vancouver? You think that didn't cost money?" I swear, he came out of the womb with an accounting ledger wrapped around the umbilical cord.

Visiting our family is not the vacation I had in mind. We've never taken a vacation as husband and wife, alone. We never even had a honeymoon. And even if we did take a honeymoon, I was pregnant so we weren't alone that time either.

I've never been alone with my own husband. I understand that I share him with our kids and even our extended family, his work, his friends, but somewhere there needs to be a line drawn.

"This whole thing is cause you're jealous of Vickie Washburn."

I feel my face heat up. I'm actually not envious of Vickie, but I can understand why he'd think that. "I am not jealous of her. I don't have any reason to be jealous of her, do I?"

Darrel crosses his arms and gives me a look, he knows what I'm doing and he's too smart to play along.

"Just stop, Darrel. Please. This isn't about the country club (not really) or about anyone but us," he lifts one eyebrow at this last statement. "This is about us, _your family_ , where our priorities lie. Where _your_ priorities lie." The tone I thought I left behind this afternoon comes roaring back with a snap.

His shoulders twitch and he winches, but then he spins around so we face each other, mirror images. Gripping the headboard behind me, his arms lock me in, his lips inches from mine.

His breath,heated in every meaning of the word, enters my open open.

"You don't question my loyalty _Catherine."_ My name comes down like the guillotine. His fists pound into the headboard behind me and my head jerks as the sound echoes in my ear.

If he dared used that tone on me when we first dated, we would never have a second date. Simple as that. Yet now not for the first time, his anger draws me in as my heart races not out of fear, but desire.

Every inch of my body is filled with an uncontrollable need to feel him inside of me. Even in his anger. _Especially_ in his anger. He backs away quickly, his eyes close as he lifts his hands in surrender, "I'm..."

I cut him off. Sometimes I'll apologize if it's not worth continuing an argument, this wasn't one of those times. "I shouldn't have questioned your loyalty." It's true. Darrel is the most loyal man I know. Just think of all he gave up for his brothers? And that loyalty doesn't stop at his blood relatives. There was a reason my parents specifically asked that Darrel join us when we found out about Edwin.

"You have nothing to apologize for. God Cathy, don't you get it? I want to give you the _world_." His voice doesn't break, Darrel Curtis rarely breaks, but it cracks just a little. Just a tiny bit and it's enough to crack my own heart and when I return to another trip the bathroom I decide to tell my husband what I owe him. The truth.

* * *

How the hell does a man react to his wife telling him we need to talk about sex?

I lost my V Card in high school. Thanks to locker room trash talk I knew exactly what not to say. Thanks to Henry Miller I knew, least on a theoretical level, the importance of the female orgasm.

Her hands brush against her long legs. She brings one of her hands to her mouth. She leans back against her dresser and I realize she's been talking this entire time, "…it's supposed to help delay and lengthen the orgasm. I suppose. Obviously I don't know for sure."

"You read this somewhere?" Hell maybe I should read that book too. Give Hank a run for his money. I prefer Harold Robbins. They both write smut but Robbins writes accessible smut.

"No!" From her horrorstruck expression you'd think I suggested we screw on top of the Blue Whale.

"So where'd you hear about this?"

The pause in her voice speaks volumes before she utters a single word.

"Aimee told me about it."

" _You talked about our personal problems_ with my brother's wife?"

"A few minutes ago you were beaming like a proud peacock and now it's suddenly a 'problem'?" A few minutes ago I didn't think we had any problems in this area.

"I sure ain't beaming now am I? And a few minutes ago you weren't blabbering our secrets across the damn continent." Frankly, I'm impressed with my restraint.

"Oh relax your majesty; you came out perfect, the flawless hero as always."

My eyes open wide in surprise and then narrow. What? Now I'm the bad guy in all this? Weightless a few minutes ago, my wedding band is a stone.

"You had no right Catherine." Without realizing it, my feet are on the floor with a thud. Our bed the impermeable wall between us.

"I have no right? Do you even hear yourself sometimes?" She moves towards me. Even in the middle of our fight, I'm impressed with the way she never backs down.

"You know it's wrong or you wouldn't be feeling guilty. You think I don't see that hemming and hawing you're doing?"

She's shaken but she tries to hide it. "I don't feel…"

"You couldn't come to me?"

Her slippers squeak as she paces the floor, my eyes lock onto her. I need her to feel me.

She whips around. "This has not about you. My God, you act like such a martyr sometimes."

"No. I prefer my nails going into wood, not my flesh...And you know what?" My voice rises "It's got everything to do with me. Last time I checked, I'm your fucking husband." I point to my ring. Probably shouldn't have said that; see as I'm winning no accolades in either the fucking or the husband part of the equation. Those words are not exculpatory evidence in my defense but an albatross around my neck. "Before you utter another goddamn word, it's got nothing to do with my pride. It's about our privacy."

"Then you probably shouldn't shout." She stage whispers waving her ring hand in the direction of our door.

The smirk is on my face before I remember why I'm shouting.

"What's wrong with you?" My anger is real but I can't disguise the concern. Cathy is one of the most discreet and careful people I know. She doesn't pull this shit. Except here she is smothering our shit all over the continent. "This isn't like you."

"I know and you're right this isn't like me. But doesn't that tell you everything right there?"

"What is it supposed to tell me? Or do I need to ask Aimee?"

"How do I feel? How do you think I feel? I feel like a freak. You know, there aren't any books about it either. I can't, even if I worked up the nerve, get a book about it. Do you know how hard it is to deal with something that no one else thinks is a problem?" Looks like martyrdom is a family trait.

Her words sink in. Does she know who she's talking to? I've been dealing with shit no one thinks is a problem for most of my life. But so has Cathy and there's a camaraderie in that.

"Aimee?" I can only manage a vacant expression but my voice has lost it's edge. "Barely utters a word Aimee? Ponyboy's wife Aimee?" You care about someone enough, they can make you shift on dime without you being cognizant of it or even willing it.

"You know another Aimee? They have sex you know."

No shit. My attempt at relieving the tension falls flat. My nostrils flare before I take a deep breath and calibrate. "Yeah, that's a vision I want in my head." I laugh. I don't strike with verbal jab of my own. When did this happen?

Her smile is quick, but it's there.

"Aimee? She's so shy," I mutter to myself. I know they get along, but I had no idea Cathy trusted Aimee so much. What else don't I know about my wife?

"No she's not. We got together that night you and your brothers were getting plastered…"

I might be a lousy husband but I'm not a drunk lousy husband. No. I fuck up on my own accord.

"Nobody got…Fucking A, Mary knows about this too?" Christ. My fingers knead my temples. Great. The entire damn tri-state area is gonna know about our sex life. This is about my pride. Fucking sue me. Shoulders and fist clench, what the hell was she thinking?

"Oh God no! I didn't tell her…. She would probably brag about how perfect Soda is and describe in great detail her own _fantastic_ orgasms." She rolls her eyes and sounds unimpressed. But married father of three, the teenager jerking off to _Playboy_ hasn't vacated my head. He wants to tell my wife that it took Soda a while to even figure out that women _could_ orgasm. Or that he used to brag about how _quick_ he could do it. But what's the point now?

"And Aimee wouldn't tell anyone, not even Ponyboy. I know _that_ on my life."

Least she didn't bet it on my life.

There's a lot I can throw at her right now. Course she's got plenty of ammunition to use against me too. Loving someone-you trust them with your secrets and trust them not to use it against you. And right now it was taking everything not to throw open the window and yell her secrets at the world. Even knowing that mine are worse.

"Of course mine _are_ good..." She says with rousing endorsement. She's struggling to find her words. You'd think being married for almost six years we'd be able to talk about the thing we do on a regular basis, but we don't and now it's a problem.

I put my hand out, "you don't need to explain." Not communicating might be a problem, but right now I'm not exactly eager to fix it.

She's unhappy and it's my fault. With all that's been thrown our way since we returned, this is what's weighing her down.

No man worth his salt wants his wife to not have a good time. It wouldn't even cross my mind to come before her any more than it would to not hold the door or pull her chair out. But maybe I haven't left that jerk off behind; that foul minded kid who associated sex with power and exchange more than exhilaration and romance.

How could I miss it. "Why couldn't you tell me?"

"I thought you knew," it's her turn to look at me with incredulity.

"How the hell was I supposed to know?"

"We were talking about how kids change everything and that's how we ended up on the subject," she gives me a wistful smile then her face contorts, her shoulders draw in and she's not crying. Nope, I am not making my wife cry. "I never meant to…"

"I know." My hands drop to my side and I walk towards her, slowly, unsure if she wants me to comfort her. Or if I can give it.

"You really didn't notice anything? I kept on worrying that I'm letting _you_ down." The confidence in her voice is back and despite feeling that once again I'm in the hot seat for not noticing we had any problems, I feel more on solid ground.

"I'm the one you should be talking too about this. The only one. You should've gone to me."

"You're right, I should have."

This could end now, but there's a question I need answered.

"There a reason you couldn't come to me? Do I scare you?" I remember that deer in the headlight look from earlier. God did she actually think I was gonna strike her?

"No! Of course not! But you even admitted that you didn't think it was a problem. I should have been honest with you. I made a mistake." She gives me a small smile, "but really I talked up a storm about you, all good stuff too."

"It's not that." I deserve the blame, but even if I didn't, my own sense of honor could never let Cathy shoulder it. Call it martyrdom or something else, all I know is that anything that goes wrong here is solely on me. "I care what you think. And you didn't think enough of me to come to me. That's what hurts Cathy." I blink, did I actually admit that I'm hurt? Of course she's got to know she has the power to hurt me, just like I have the power to hurt her but that power we hold over each other has, until now, been unstated.

"I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you." Her expression is still sympathetic as her tone becomes no nonsense, "I should have been forthright with you, but I'm not sorry we're having this conversation right now. It's long overdue."

I pause and look down at my bare feet curled into the carpet. I want to think about the words that come out of my mouth. The boots, I'm remembering, the one is that dream, belonged to my dad. My own Trade Towers of sorts.

"You don't let me down."

"What?"

I look straight at her. "What you said earlier, you've never let me down." Of course this wasn't 100% true. She's let me down, I let her down. We're married, we love each other, it's what we do. But what I'm getting at is that even when we disappoint each other, we love each other enough to muddle through, to learn and to try to make it better. And that's even better. I think she knows what I mean.

Cathy and I work because how much we understood each other without needing to say a word. I raise my eyebrow and she gives me glance from across the room and we'd know exactly what we meant. In fact I always thought that's why we worked. But words meant something too. A glue to bond things together.

If words meant something, I had some of my own. Not the only emotions I felt, but all the same I stand tall as I walk towards her. My heart on bended knee. Taking her hand in mine and hold it for a second and look into her eyes.

"Whatever you want, I'm game."

We spend the rest of the night talking. And the more she talks about it, the hornier and looser I become. _Goddamn Aimee_. I chuckle to myself. It's always the quiet ones. Set your watch to it.

"You ever want to do it in front of another person?" Apparently being 'loose' translates on my end to sounding like a teenage girl at a slumber party. But that's okay. Plus, I want to know.

My wife who's been talking about orgasms delay and control like it's the latest dance craze scrunches up her face is shock and disgust, "ew, like a _threesome_?"

"Hell no. Ain't no one getting me but you and I'm sure as hell not sharing you. I'm talking about voyeurism."

"Man or woman?" she winks. And there's no good answer.

"Wild boar."

I think about wanting to escape; knowing that even though I'll never act on it, that urge is there.

"I'm not perfect Cathy, okay?" My chin rests on top of her shoulder, that little bow ticking.

"Neither am I," she says brightly, sounding young and naïve. "Why do you want someone watching us?" She's curious and part of me wants to tell her my fantasy but I'm not that brave or foolish. I'll keep this and so many other things to myself.

* * *

In the middle of the night I feel his hand rub my elbow, "Cathy? Cathy?"

I jolt up, all systems ready to go, "what?! Oh God is it the kids? The hospital?"

I can hear the guilt in his voice, "I'm sorry, didn't mean to startle you. I was just thinkin'. What makes you think Vickie thinks I'm not Billy's dad? Maybe she thinks you're not Billy's mom." Even in the dark I can tell he has a cat ate the canary grin.

"No darling," I try for my best long cool glass of iced tea drawl, the type Momma speaks in, the real south, not our diluted Tulsa accents. "If that was the case she'd be visiting me in jail as I await my double homicide trial."

"I'm going to cut C.D.'s hair tomorrow, it's beginning to look too much like a Kewpie doll." Mary does their hair if they need to look nice, otherwise I do it.

"Forgot to tell you, he did a good job wiping himself earlier."

"Really? Good." My son knows how to wipe himself of course, but he gets constipation or diarrhea or anything of that nature we have to wipe him or go into the washroom with him since sometimes get up from the toilet in the middle of everything.

"Oh did I tell you that Karen has a boyfriend?"

Darrel looks at me startled before laughing, "long as he ain't in the construction business, we should be good."

"Yes sir," I say with a tease, "never can trust those guys. Oh, honey I forgot, we need to sign Karen's registration form."

"I'll do it now," he gets up, the bed loudly adjusting to his absence and turns on the light that bathes his large frame.

"On my dresser."

"By the way babe, what's the name of Karen's teacher again?"

"Lisa…"

Before I have a chance to finish, under his breath, I hear him mutter, "you've got to be fuckin' kidding me."

* * *

Her eyes start to shut. Her pulse rises under my own. Outside its pitch black, but in our bedroom her light hits our faces, casting an unnerving spotlight.

" _CATHERINE"_

Teeth clenched I tear into her name.

Licking the corner of her lips, her tongue curls.

"Don't you dare," growls out from a low place submerged in our cheesy acting.

My face goes on lockdown. From my peripheral vision I see her dirty nurse costume sprawled across the headboard. _Yeah. This is weird._

Then her teeth clench. Fierce and determined our steel eyes lock. She yanks back control from herself. My muscles contract, warmth races through me and it's not all about sex, it's unbearable to love someone this much, and the most natural feeling in the world.

It's not her body or even the little purrs that are pushing me closer and closer but watching her dominate her own instinct. On my words.

"I'm gonna be so good to you," I whisper deep inside her ear, my promise and tongue linger for a few seconds. I cup her chin and catch her gaze, aroused and anticipatory, inside my own. "But not yet."

Her moans tingle down my spine.

Christ. I want to give her everything I got. Anything.

The sheets entangle us. Sweat, perfume and iodoform oozes into my skin. Her scent. Cathy tilts her neck, fragile and swan-like. Under my mouth her pulse vibrates and her skin heats up. Her fingers, slender, soft and wet with her spit wrap around and stroke, her wedding ring gliding against me. My own ring massages against one nipple, my mouth around the other one.

Our eyes hook each other. My hands are the only light I need as I work my way down the body I know almost as well as my own. _Slow_. I remind myself.

Primal instincts take over. The headboard slams against the wall. The bed creaks. The costume falls. Tomorrow it will be kept on our closet's highest shelf, next to my gun box, hidden from prying eyes and fingers.

"Shh… Darrel… the… kids…" Her eyes move towards our door and her mind to our kids.

The bang of the headboard gives her a jolt. A slow smirk spreads across my face. _Fuck the kids, baby this is our time._

Her fingernails dig into my shoulders. I pull her towards me. Our eyes meet one last time before hers roll back. She licks her lips. Her tongue curls. Her mouth opens.

She is unleashed.

* * *

"Should we go?"

Darrel adjusts the cuffs on his shirt, his hair blow dried and his shoes freshly buffed and shined all for a meeting with a potential investor. Someone he met at the Club he reminded me. _Twice._

I'm excited and nervous for him, for us. He steals a glance at himself in the mirror all while pretending he's not. He's more apprehensive than he wants to admit.

"I think we're expected to be at that wedding." He gives me a puzzled look while nimbly brushing down a stray cowlick, swearing under his breath how the damn thing never does stay in place.

"No," I brush down his hair and straighten out his shirt, "My reunion. It's not as if I really kept in touch with anyone, except Pony of course, and we'd have to make sure it doesn't conflict with anything, and…" I tap each point on my finger, trying to think of excuses why we can't go, until I run out of excuses before I run out of fingers.

I give him a look over, "you look perfect." He does.

"Do you want to go?" Darrel's words are slow and deliberate as he begins to put on his tie that I picked out for him the night before. I can tell he doesn't really care if we go or not. I can tell that he thinks that I shouldn't care either. But he cares enough about me to pretend he cares about my reunion.

We never went to his tenth. With everything in our lives, not mention one baby at home and another on the way, we just couldn't. I don't think he minded though. He rarely talks about high school. Then again, he rarely talks about his past. I know more about his childhood through Ponyboy than him, and when you consider that's there six years between them, that's a lot that Pony couldn't possibly know about. Which means that there's still a whole lot I don't know. Even though he's my husband.

My finger runs over the "Class of '68" type. I never thought of myself as being the type of person who showed up at reunions just to show off how successful they became. The whole idea just reeks of pathetic desperation. Lord knows there was enough of that at the county club. Lord knows _I_ was doing enough of that at the country club.

But when Darrel adjusts his jacket and finally lets a satisfied grin spread like melted butter across his face, my heart skips a beat.

And I do like to dance and deep inside, don't I love attention? Don't I love to be seen?

I know now I want nothing more than to walk into that room on his strong arm, all eyes on us.

* * *

Thank you. :) S.E. Hinton owns. Frog & Toad is by Arnold Lobel. Vickie Harper was gratefully borrowed from the wonderfully talented AndThatWasEnough And yes some fairly big Pony spoiler in the middle! ;)


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